Choosing
by Dreamfall
Summary: In the 25th Hunger Games, to remind the Districts that they had brought the Games on themselves through their choice to rebel, each district was forced to choose its own tributes. These tributes had to face not only the Capitol and, ultimately, the arena from which only one would emerge, but also the fact that their own people had picked them to go into the arena. (Complete)
1. Chapter 1: Voting

**Choosing  
By: **Dreamfall  
 **Warnings:** Uncivilized language, fandom-appropriate violence, mentions of rape.  
 **Disclaimer:** As one might assume of a work posted on a site dedicated to fanfiction, the basic premise of The Hunger Games is not mine.  
 **Notes:** The District 12 segment of this chapter was written for a The Girl on Fire ficathon prompt. The prompt, by phoebebeesly, read: "Original characters, the voting of tributes for the 25th Hunger Games". I got caught up in concepts and decided to continue on with it. This is completely written and posted at The Mockinjay livejournal community, though I'm editing before posting here. This first chapter is pretty heavily edited, since I was partly reshuffling to put the districts in order when I'd originally started with 12.

* * *

 **Chapter One: Voting**

It wasn't a secret ballot. That would have defeated the purpose. In fact, in was only reluctantly that the Capitol had given up as too time-consuming the idea that each citizen should stand before the child they were voting for, look them in the face as they cast their vote. Instead, they compromised on a huge viewing screen with each person's picture shown with their choice listed in large block letters. The rest of the screen was divided between live pictures of the kids who had received votes, with those who had received the most getting the most screen space.

 _District 1_  
Quell smiled widely, not letting his face get stiff or look unnatural with the lengthy period he had to hold the expression. What was training for, after all, if not this: the beginning of the most important period of his life? He felt the wind change a little and turned his face into it so his blond hair would catch it and sparkle, not letting his eyes narrow against the sting of the breeze in them. He looked at the huge image of himself at the front of the square, and widened his smile a little further, tensing the muscles of his shoulders a bit so they stood out further. He had been _born_ for this. Literally. His father had won the Fourth Games and his mother the Sixth. He'd been born a year later, and if he hadn't been conceived in the period that would make him less than three months short of his nineteenth birthday when the 25th reaping arrived, they wouldn't have bothered. They had been fiercely determined to prove their loyalty to the Capitol that loved them despite the sins of their parents, and with the first Quarter Quell coming at year 25, he was their way, their proof. He'd been born and raised for this, for these few upcoming weeks, and this Game was _his_ For the honor of District 1 and the Capitol, he would persevere.

He spared a glance for Precious, beside him, and found her looking lovely and composed. He didn't think anyone who didn't know her well would see the very faint pallor to her features, or that she was breathing just a hint faster than usual. He couldn't fault her for those minimal signs of discomfort. She was going in as his support: her first priority was to watch his back. They coludn't just fight for themselves, they had to fight for their district, and District 1's best chance was him. But she could make that chance even better if she helped rather than the two of them fighting separately. She'd been trained for her destiny as long as he'd been groomed for his, had accepted it years ago, and he could forgive her the tiny signs of fear that she could hide from everyone but him.

 _District 2_  
Merith kept the score screen in the corner of her eye as she raised the bullhorn to her mouth again and let out a shout as another adult picture showed her name under it in big block letters. "Well _done_ , Ana! I'll be fighting for _you_ out there!"

"No, bad choice!" Ina shouted into her own bullhorn, shaking her head. " _I'm_ the one you want to watch in the coming weeks, I'm the one who will come back to you with the Chapion's crown!" Her eyes flicked to the board and she called out the names of those who were voting but hadn't placed a name yet, the men first: she always focused on the men first. "Jato, Carson, Anson— _Merith_ won't give the capitol the show they want to see, the show _you_ want to see! Vote for me, and you'll get the Games of your _dreams_!" She posed, thrusting out those oversized boobs of hers, and offering a wink right into the camera.

"Only if you dream of _losing_ ," Merith shouted back. "You've all seen our practices, seen the ads. Time and again I've shown my superiority! I'm the one you want representing you this year!"

The boys were occasionally shouting, too, but it was pretty much obvious that Zander was going to the Games, and Drake had given in relatively gracefully, unlike certain vapid vamps who thought they could win the Games by flirting their way out of combat. But Merith was gradually drawing away from Ina—the people of District 2 weren't _stupid_ after all—and now it was just a matter of time as her picture got bigger and Ina shrank into the obscurity she deserved. She didn't pause in her encouragement and prodding for votes, however. It may be only a matter of time, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth being absolutely certain. Merith had always been a fan of overkill.

 _District 3_  
Almost nobody voted for the most advantaged kids. They might have if it had been a secret ballot, might have been glad on some level to see the most powerful, the ones who never had to take any tesserae chosen—but advantaged kids came from powerful families, and those families would punish those who voted for them. They chose among the families who would have no recourse. Smaller families, mostly, so there wouldn't be too many angry aunts and uncles and older siblings. Poor families. Kids with disabilities were chosen a lot.

Bit and Byte Yeren were twins, sixteen, though Bit showed no signs of the soft curves of womanhood that maturity might grant her slim body, and Byte's shoulders were still narrow as well as being faintly stooped. Their mother had gotten pregnant with them not long after winning the Second game. She'd had a period of being rather promiscuous in the Capitol, and they were the result. She'd also had a period of heavily using a personally modified version of morphling that made it considerably stronger and longer lasting—and they were the result of that, as well.

She'd known there was something wrong with them before she'd even given birth, and had tried three times to abort, but had been stopped by Capitol watchdogs each time. She'd tried to kill them as soon as they'd been born, but the doctor had saved them and they'd been raised in an orphanage. She died, not long after. But she hadn't been mistaken in her belief that they were not _right_. It was immediately apparent that, far from their mother's nearly incomprehensible genius, they were barely present in their heads. They could follow simple instructions. Eat. Get dressed—if their clothes were laid out. Lie down. Stand up. But that was the limit of their abilities. And it was almost instantly clear to everyone in District 3 that they were ideal candidates to send to the Hunger Games.

 _District 4_  
Bella Carson's parents had been overly optimistic in naming her, and she had a smile that glittered knives and promised anyone who felt like pointing out her name's unsuitability would soon find themselves playing a scavenger hunt looking for the bones she'd be delighted to start removing from them. Despite her protruding forehead, muddy eyes, short legs, and long arms, she stood with quiet self-assurance as she watched her face growing ever larger on the screen, that glittering smile whispering of satisfaction, this time, instead of imminent death. She'd worked damned hard for this, and, while she didn't exactly get to volunteer, the School had put her name around, along with Finlay Corker's, as the ones appropriate to vote for.

Cork was standing next to her, seeming, as always, more like an evil little kid than nearly a man. He was short and big boned and bouncing on the ball of his feet with excitement, looking maybe half his eighteen years. The ways the names showed on the board was kind of funny. The voter's picture would appear, and then her name. And then there would be a long hesitation before his joined her, as if they weren't quite sure the school actually meant _him_. _He_ couldn't be the volunteer. He was too little and bouncy, like an eager puppy. Her smile glittered brighter and she ruffled his hair, earning herself a bright, eager smile back that filled his eyes right up and didn't show the slightest hint that he was imagining beating her to death with a stick. He'd always been good at hiding his feelings, way better than her.

 _District 5_  
" _Daddy_!" Isra Rand shrieked, catching sight of her father far away in the crowd of grownups, staring at her where she stood on the stage. She waved madly. "Daddy, look at me! I get to ride the train!"

Terent Laker, beside her, closed his eyes for a moment, and then forced a smile and reached up to pat her on the shoulder. She looked down at him, that grin as blazingly happy as always, and he was relieved that she'd never see through how weak his own was. "Let's go to the Town Hall now with the nice peacekeepers, okay?" he said. "Then your dad can see you before we go on the train."

"Okay!" she agreed happily, slipping one big hand into his and the other into that of the startled peacekeeper on her other side. She offered her smile to him, then. "Thank you, Mr. Peacekeeper, for taking us. Peace is important!"

Terent was bitterly pleased at the miserable expression on the peacekeeper's face. "Uh, yes, miss," he said. "This way, please." He tried surreptitiously to pull his hand away, but Isra stood over six feet tall and was built like an ox and once she got a grip on something, she never, ever let go until she wanted to. She swung her arms as they walked, Terent and the peacekeeper swinging theirs, perforce.

Terent wasn't mad about himself. He'd know he was going in. After that accident three years back, well. He was the obvious choice. Nobody could prove him directly to blame, or he'd have been punished already, but everyone knew he'd started the fire. He hadn't meant to, but he'd done it. And finally he was getting the punishment the law hadn't been able to give earlier. But Isra hadn't done anything wrong. She couldn't if she tried! Sure, she was special, but she wasn't useless: she could clean and stuff: would for hours without dimming her spirits. And there was no way she should be sent to _this_.

 _District 6_  
Dug Coggen snarled silently around him, glaring. Fuck them. Fuck them one and fucking all. They thought they were punishing him, thought they were avenging poor little Misty, who'd been goddamn asking for it with those short skirts and low-cut shirts, and with the lewd looks and her goddamn cocktease act of pulling away. As if he'd given her anything more than she'd fucking _begged_ for. He wouldn't have had to hit her if she'd just admitted she wanted it—and they couldn't prove he'd done anything anyway. As for her father, that was obviously self-defense. The dumb fuck had come at him with a knife in public, and him hands as empty as the fucking priest's. Not a man in the world could blame him for taking the knife and sticking him with it—and the peacekeepers said as much. So now they figured this was their chance. Fuck them. This—maybe he wouldn't have chosen it, but this was a goddamn opportunity. He was coming back, and he was coming back rich. Goddamn champions could do pretty much whatever the fuck they wanted. He stalked to the stage, leapt up onto it without bothering with the stairs, and glared around, eyes finally landing on Misty, who was trying to look defiant, little cunt. "I'll be back, honey," he promised her. "Just you wait for me." She stumbled where she stood and dropped her gaze, and his smile widened.

"Dick."

He snickered and looked Myra Shill, who had preceded him onto the stage, up and down. "You still look like a little boy."

"If it keeps jackasses like you from being interested in me, I'll take it," she said. She was a year behind him in school, seventeen, and they were punishing her, too.

"Your life of crime finally caught up to you, huh?" he said. "Rob any more little old ladies?"

"Fuck you," she said levelly.

"No thanks, I ain't gay."

"A pity for women everywhere, though I'm sure the men are grateful."

He snarled and moved to hit her, but was grabbed by a peacekeeper. He relaxed, calming as quickly as he flared up. "Poor little Myra. I'm gonna kill you with my bare hands."

She grinned suddenly, fierce and joyless. "Think so?"

"Oh, I know so."

"Good," she said. "It'll be nice for you to die confident."

Before he could respond, their guide told them to stop bickering, and the peacekeepers herded them off towards the town hall.

 _District 7_  
Rosin Parsons had spent his anger and his grief and his betrayal and his fear long before he was selected, long before the voting even began, in fact. It hadn't occurred to him when the announcement had first been made of how the Quarter Quell would work, but when people started discussing who they were going to vote for, he saw eyes slip his way and then hurriedly away. It didn't take much of a leap to figure out that when they were choosing who to send to his death, the boy who had been born with only little stumps where he should have had arms was not going to feel like much loss to the community. A lot of folks thought his parents should have quietly let him slip away as an infant—he'd never hold a job, never contribute, he'd always be a drain on a family that could barely afford to keep themselves fed. But they hadn't. And now, thirteen years later, the choice was being taken out of their hands.

When he'd realized, he'd spent two days locked up in his room with his heaviest blankets over him to muffle his screams and sobs. He said he had a migraine, and they left him alone. He took those days to let himself mourn a life that had never really been and now never would be. It probably wouldn't have anyway, but now it was certain. When he'd emerged, he had been pale and thin, but he'd smiled at his family and eaten his breakfast and never mentioned the Games. He didn't say anything to the neighbors who suddenly couldn't meet his eyes anymore, and he went to the reaping in his best clothes and stood serenely as his picture appeared, sharing the screen only briefly with others before growing and growing and growing.

He didn't look at it much, more interested in the girls' side. It wasn't his older sister, nor any of the cousins, nor any of the girls he knew well from school. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen her in school. Her name was Becky Thuren, and she was slim and pretty and, according to the bracketed number next to her name, sixteen. He wondered what was wrong with her.

She was standing with her shoulders hunched, staring at her feet, with a wide open circle around her, everyone studiously avoiding looking at her. There was something strange about her face though, a sort of immobility, and when her eyes randomly looked straight at the camera for a moment, there was a dullness to them that he'd seen before in people with severe mental problems. So that explained that. He felt a certain fellow-feeling with her as he watched their faces growing ever larger on the screen. They were the two most deeply flawed teenagers in District 7, apparently.

 _District 8_  
Ven Canton watched as Armscye Stills slipped up the steps looking tiny and terrified and brave anyway. She was covered in lurid scars, as he was himself, but she moved easily, which was more than he could say. He knew despite how smoothly she moved, though, that that stick wasn't just for show. She'd practiced for the last week moving forward and climbing those steps. She planned exactly where she was going to stand, and had her best friend place her there so she could count her steps and move easily. Just as though the accident _hadn't_ blinded her. It wouldn't be a secret, of course. Not for long, if at all. You couldn't just fake being able to see. But she said she was going to do her best to look confident anyway, and he figured that was fair enough. They'd talked about it a lot since they figured out it was going to be them. It's not that anyone blamed them for the accident that had killed nineteen people, including both Armscye's parents and Ven's father, and left both of them … damaged. It was just that they were such a reminder.

Once she was settled and welcomed, his name was called and he drew a deep breath and dragged himself to the stage. Then he stared at the stairs wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. He could manage flat ground. Kind of. But he could no more climb those stairs than he could fly, and he hadn't come up with any solution despite all their talking.

"Well?" Ulric Tonsed, District 8's escort said with false cheer. "Come up and take the place of honor, Ven!"

"I don't think I can," he said softly.

"Of course you can! Don't worry—every tribute has some misgivings, but honor awaits you and you must step up to carry it!"

"It's not that," he said. "It's my knees. I can't really do … stairs." His knees didn't bend right since the accident. He could only take tiny, short steps and he couldn't lift his feet high enough for the eight inch steps.

Ulric, disgruntled, had a whispered conference with the leader of the peacekeepers, and then Ven was embarrassed to be lifted bodily by one of the white-clad men and placed on stage. The peacekeeper didn't meet his gaze, and his lips were thin and tightly pinched closed. Ven couldn't decide if it was pity or disgust, but figured he'd get plenty of both in the coming weeks and might as well get used to it, so he murmured his thanks and shuffled over to join Armscye.

 _District 9  
_ Tillie Marson swallowed heavily as she watched her face get bigger and bigger and bigger on the screen until it was all she could see. She hadn't thought it would be her. She'd thought—she'd thought—she _found_ a job! Missy Penroe said she could watch her kids for room and board, and she loved the kids and she was good at it, Missy said she was. And she'd never ever let them get hurt or eat anything bad or let anything bad happen to them, not ever. And Mummy always said she'd be a drain unless she found a job, but she _had_ , so she _wasn't_ , so why was it _her_? She knew she wasn't very smart (last in her class and the letters and numbers always moved around when she tried to read and figure, and she couldn't, she just _couldn't_ figure out how anyone did it), and she had a terrible black thumb (it _wasn't_ forgetfulness, no matter what they said, she watered _exactly_ as often and as much as they said, just the plants didn't like her and they turned brown and dry or yellow and limp anyway, no matter what she did), and she wasn't good with a lot of people yelling at her (like when she'd tried the job in the kitchen and the chef had spoken sharply and she'd dropped the whole tray of plates and then screamed when they shattered and cut herself trying to pick up the pieces, apologizing over and over and over but not enough that they didn't tell her not to come back), but she _was_ good with the children. Missy _said_. And she'd _found_ a job.

She started crying when they said her name. She moved forward mechanically because that was what you do when you're called, even if it shouldn't be you because you did what you were supposed to. When she got to the stage and turned back, she sought through the crowd, looking for anyone, looking for understanding. She didn't find that, but she did find her parents, stone faced and dry-eyed and refusing to look at her. She found Missy, too, who was sobbing even harder than she was, and the little ones who were confused and upset and crying hysterically. For them, she managed to stop crying.

Then they called Grant Patters and a boy she didn't know with black hair and pale skin and pretty purple eyes stood up and came to the stage, looking scared and resigned and angry. He looked awfully young, too young for them to vote for, and she wondered why it was him.

"Because," he said, and she realized she must have wondered out loud instead of in her head like she meant to. She did that sometimes. "Because the district wanted to show that they didn't condone my parents' beliefs or actions in the war, and so they're punishing them through me. Just like the Quell's reasoning—choosing the tribute as a reminder that they _chose_ violence before." He looked through the crowd, and probably found his parents because he nodded at them. And _then_ he crossed his arms over his chest and then raised his right hand, palm forward, and Tilly gasped.

"You're not supposed to do that!" she whispered anxiously, though it came out too loud because she wasn't very good at whispering. "That's the sign of the bad people!"

Grant offered her a little smile. "The winners choose who the bad people are," he said, which didn't make sense because nobody _chooses_ what's good and bad, it just _is_. But before she could explain that, they were hushed so their guide could make a speech and then take them off to the Central Hall.

 _District 10_  
Jedric Nikai knew the odds weren't in his favor when his face was the first to show up on that damned screen, a hundred feet high since he wasn't sharing it with anyone else yet, with the picture of his father next to it, his name in big letters under the man's gleefully smiling face. It never meant anything good for Jedric when his father was smiling. The man's mouth was moving in the video, but, of course, Jedric didn't know if they were playing sound through speakers or just video—his hearing had been lost to the same infection that had weakened his mother too much to survive his birth. Maybe someone else would be chosen, but he figured most people wanted a way out that wasn't going to make their neighbors hate them, and picking someone whose own family threw him to the wolves would achieve that. So he followed the plan he'd made when he was eleven and knew next year it could be him. That had been six years ago, but he still figured it was his best bet. He let his jaw slacken and his eyes lose focus and did his best impression of a cow just after you'd whacked it with a mallet but before it actually fell down. He wasn't get through this on bravado. He probably wasn't going to get through it at all. But if he did, it would be from them underestimating him, and he'd do his damnedest to encourage just that.

When a hand tentatively touched his shoulder, he let his eyes focus in on the face of a kid he only vaguely knew from school. He was white-faced and wouldn't quite meet Jedric's eyes, as he pointed at Jedric, and then the screen, and then the stage. Jedric gaped at him, and he nodded firmly, took Jedric by the shoulders, turned him to the stage, and gave a little push. Carefully letting a little fear and confusion seep into his mask of stupidity, he lumbered forward to the stage, and climbed up, noting that the girl tribute was Nessa Parkins, a girl two years younger than his seventeen, who had a bad cleft palate that prevented clear speech. The Capitol wasn't going to be getting much in the way of entertaining speeches and interviews out of the two of _them_ , he decided with a hint of grim amusement.

 _District 11_  
Tanna Polan laughs and lifts one hand to the glowing butterfly that bobs around her head, though she doesn't point it out to anyone else. Nobody ever saw them, nobody ever saw anything fun. They said she didn't see them either, she just thought she did, but that was silly because if you thought you saw something then you did see it. They said it was Momma's fault she sees things, because of how Momma got bit by tracker jackers over in Orchard 347 when she was pregnant, but Tanna knows what she sees is different. She knows because she got a tracker jacker to bite her when she heard about it to see if it was the same, but it wasn't. Then she saw things, too, but it hurt, hurt more than anything, and what she saw was angry and awful. Most of the time she sees nice things, bright things. Sometimes even helpful things. She can find stuff, almost always. When Momma loses her keys, she always asks Tanna to help find them, because Tanna always _can_ find them—after all, they'd _glow_ and shoot off little fireworks.

The butterfly flits away, and she follows its flight with her eyes and her hand until it disappears into the distance, leaving her pointing at the huge screen, filled with her picture, which is pointing back at her, grinning. The grin fades and she swallows heavily, realizing what it means. Arms wrapping around herself, she looks into her eyes and tried to figure out what to do. Then she hears her name, crackly and achey and shot through with red and black, and takes a deep breath. Papa said it was important to be brave no matter what, so she straightens her shoulders and walked up to the stage.

Dirk Starden's papa apparently had forgot to tell him about being brave, though. He's screaming and sobbing like he had the time he fell out of the tree and broke both his legs in about a thousand places. She can still see bright pink and orange jags jutting out from them in every direction as he finally drags himself to the stage with his crutches, glaring around the crowd and telling them he hates them all, he wants them all to die. The crowd's roiling purple and red and blue and black like an oil spill, though, and Tanna can't hate them when they're so miserable. A fluorescent yellow knife sliding out of the ground catches her eye, and she stares in wonder as it unfurls into a leaf with blue veining and sharp-looking chrome all around the edges, and then climbs up on a stalk and more leaves pop out, and branches, and it's a tree of knife-bladed leaves almost too bright to look at, and she laughs in amazement as the leaves suddenly all blow off and swirl around her, cutting bright red into her, and it hurts but it's still so amazing that she spins and laughs, trying to follow them as they cut and cut and _cut_ their way into her skin, not leaving any room to be mad at the people who voted for her or worried about Momma and Papa and Kev and Starling and Ella and Jaysie.

She stops spinning and looks for her family, which is easy because Kev, who just turned nineteen a couple months ago, always glowed in the brightest, most amazing green that could ever exist, and anyone could spot _him_. She smiles at them, and waves. She doesn't want to die. She really, really doesn't want to die. But maybe she won't, after all, and even if she does, she thinks maybe death would be sort of amazing to watch.

 _District 12_  
Little Kitty Pierst had a lot of votes. Everyone said it was a miracle she'd lived to thirteen, she couldn't possibly last much longer. She sat clenching her eyes and refusing to look at the screen, shuddering, with her best friend Tamma holding her in a tight hug, telling her she was going to live forever, she wasn't allowed to die.

Jed Karnon was the early favorite for the boys, he was eighteen and _mean_ , mean enough some of them thought maybe he could even win. But then he met Old Man Tosa's eyes, and Tosa, one of the richest men in District 12, went all white and then in that mysterious way information moves through crowds without anyone seeming to really say it, it got around to those who hadn't voted yet that anyone who voted for Jed was getting blacklisted from Tosa's three grocery stores, and his votes pretty much stopped.

Kenny Tucker started getting more votes, then. He was a good boy, but a halfwit. Couldn't manage to learn reading or figuring to save his life—which maybe it would have, though nobody could have been able to guess that. He was strong and a willing enough worker, but he was about to start in the mines, and the men were afraid he'd do something witless and you couldn't afford major blunders down there. Maybe it would be better for him to just die young.

Kitty's mother started screaming, trying to draw attention to other girls, to point out how _they_ would be better choices, and the nearest father of one of them pushed through the crowd and punched her in the face, knocking her flat. But she got back up, blood streaming down her face, still raving, and then her eyes lit up, and she turned on Rav Kotter, and offered her fourteen-year-old, Posy, to him if he'd save her little miracle. He'd been trying to get the girl for months, and everyone knew she was terrified of him. He accepted though, and the votes on Kitty dried up, because Kotter would send his bully boys out to terrorize anyone who got between him and his new toy and nobody was willing to face that.

Rebby Hawthorne was the girl whose picture started overtaking Kitty's, and she stood silent with her chin up and her arms folded, a little pale, but steady, and everyone knew she wasn't going to have a save because she didn't have any family _to_ save her. Her whole family died of that plague two years back, and she'd never so much as sniffled. She was seventeen, now, and had survived alone by making clothes, and almost never talked to anyone except about work. Nobody ever even saw her cry about her family, she just changed the subject if anyone brought them up, and acted simply unnatural. And there wasn't anyone's picture close enough to as big as hers than anyone much thought there would likely be another upset.

Kenny had pretty much firmed up, too, and the two of them just kept swelling till they took most of the screen, though Kenny's mother and older sister and brother sobbed.

And then Torrie Caphan, their district escort, babbled about the exciting moment and announced Rebby. And Rebby started forward, pale and unsmiling but her stride firm, and then, suddenly, a voice behind her called out, "I volunteer."

And everyone stopped dead and stared in shock as Posy Pierst walked forward, pale and terrified-looking but not hesitating. Kitty shrieked a horrified denial, Kotter shouted, enraged, and Rebby burst out, "What? I don't even _know_ you!"

"Nothin' to do with you," Posy muttered, walking past her and up onto the stage. And then she looked straight at Rov Kotter, and she smiled, hard and cool, and right there in front of all Panem, she said, "Told you I'd rather die than let you touch me."

After that, Kenny was sort of anti-climactic, his family weeping but nobody doing anything else, and the reaping ceremony for the 25th hunger games was, at last, at an end.

* * *

 **Author's Subnote:** Only after I was totally caught up in my characters did I realize my District 12 naming SNAFU. Posy (a bundle of flowers) with a sister Kitty, for a fandom with main character 'Kat'niss with sister Primrose (a kind of flower)...? Ugh. It was, however, too late to do anything about it. I tried changing the names and lost connection to the characters. So they returned to their original form and I ask you to forgive the unintentional echo.


	2. Chapter 2: Leaving

**Chapter Two: Leaving**

Grant started moving his arms to cross them defensively over his stomach and made himself stop and leave them where they were, straighten his shoulders further, and spread his feet a bit to stand straighter. He could read the agony in his father's eyes, but neither of them voiced it.

"This isn't hopeless, Grant. Voting is meant to force the district to make an untenable choice, and of course it does, but most are going to choose those it's the least sacrifice to give up, and that means the weakest, in one way or another."

"I know, Father." he said. He did. They'd been discussing it non-stop since the Quarter Quell was announced. Because they all knew it was going to be him. His mother had gotten tight-jawed and shot an angry look at his father that he knew meant she still blamed him for the decision to keep him when she got pregnant. She'd said from the first that the voting was almost certainly rigged and any child they had _would_ come up. Turns out, it didn't matter if it was rigged or not. But that certainty had kept her from being terribly close with him—she'd been convinced that he would die, had said goodbye at his first Reaping, and hadn't seemed at all comforted when he came back from that one. Maybe she was right when she'd shouted at his father the other night that this explained that: they didn't have to cheat, they'd just had to wait two years and know they could have what they wanted without showing their hand so clearly.

"I know your instincts are to lead and protect, but you _cannot_ do that here, Grant," he continued as he had a thousand times in recent days. "You need to come out of this alive, and in order to do that, you have to look after _yourself_ , not all the strays."

"I know, Father," he repeated. He also knew what they all knew. He wasn't going to come out of this alive. Not because he was bound to be one of the youngest Tributes, not because of any failure in training (he was almost certainly well ahead of any but the ones they'd started training up in Districts 1, 2, and 4, and probably nearly on par with them, given their disparity in age), not because of any lack of intelligence on his part (he'd been at the top of every class for years, and had a tactical sense that his father bemoaned not having available to them thirty years ago). No. He wasn't coming back because the game _wasn't fair_. If he did too well, they'd find a way to kill him off. After all, Tributes died of a lot of things other than violence done by other Tributes in the Games. And there was no way they'd let one of their precious Champions be the son of two of the highest ranked leaders of the rebellion. He knew all of this. His mother certainly did. His father probably did, too, though he wasn't admitting it—possibly not even to himself.

"Time," the peacekeeper said.

They just looked at each other for a moment, then his father nodded sharply. "I want you to come home," he said.

"I'll do my best," he promised.

His father grasped his forearm for a moment, then turned on his heel and left, face a mask.

A few moments later, to his shock, his mother stepped in, her as still as though it had been chiseled of granite. "You're going to die," she said.

He clamped his teeth on a sigh, a flinch, and then swallowed and said, very softly, "I know, Mother."

Her lips twitched. Very slightly. He might not have noticed except that he'd never seen her mouth move like that before, and found his attention completely captured. "I tried," she said and broke off, and that was even stranger because she'd never been anything but completely in control of herself. "I tried so _goddamn_ hard not to love you," she finally said.

His eyes widened a little. "Mother?"

Hands tightly fisted, she stepped forward as if to hit him, and he held himself steadily, not showing his uncertainty. She didn't hit him. Instead, she caught him in a hug tight enough to hurt, driving the breath from his lungs, her knuckles digging into his back hard enough to bruise, and it was the first time he could actually remember her touching him, much less hugging him, and he was too surprised to return it.

"I wish I'd been wrong," she muttered, her breath warm against his ear. Then she let him go and walked evenly out of the room, not waiting for the guard to call time.

He stared at nothing as the door closes behind her, ignoring the burn in his eyes, refusing to blink since that might dislodge proof of something he couldn't afford to feel. Nobody else came in. He had friends, but their parents were afraid of the Capitol, afraid someone would see them, afraid there would be punishment for any show of support. He tried to figure out whether or not he was glad his mother had come, but the ache in his eyes started to grow and he forced himself to dismiss the question and focus on his breathing until the interminable wait finally ended and he was taken to rejoin Tillie and board the train.

—

Quell sat on the couch beside Precious, his full attention on the screen filling the side of the train as it replayed the reapings. His own first, of course, and then on through the districts. His lips started curling in disgust as they played District 2, the tributes rowdy and shouting, cheering like they were earning votes for high school class president or something. Ridiculous. No discipline. The two lackwits from District 3 revolted him. 4 showed some promise, but the girl was hideous—she wouldn't be getting any sponsors—and the boy—well, he could hardly believe he was a volunteer, despite that eager grin. It only got worse from there. This was supposed to be his moment of glory, and they were stealing it by sending against him their worst and weakest, the absolute dregs. Killing the rebel, the one from the family who had practically led the rebellion, trying to drive them all into starvation and misery, that would be good. But aside from that—the rapist looked to be about the only potential threat other than the typical offerings of Districts 2 and 4. Rather than a battle between twenty-four, this was going to be between seven—and none of them a challenge. As the little girl with the insipid name volunteered, his interest was briefly raised—but she as much as admitted that it was more suicide-by-tribute than any hope of survival.

He turned off the screen and glowered out the window at the landscape flowing by. This was supposed to be his moment of glory, and instead he was going to be little more than an exterminator, catching vermin and putting them out of their misery. He wouldn't _deserve_ his home in Victors' Village.

—

"Now that you've seen the reapings, let's introduce you to your mentor, shall we?" Torrie asked in that over-cheerful tone that put Posy's teeth on edge, gesturing for them to rise, eyes never _quite_ focusing on Kenny, who she appeared to think one step away from cow dung—in one direction or the other.

Posy stood up, one hand reaching out to tug Kennie's sleeve so he stood, too. "I thought mentors were previous winners," she said. "12 doesn't have any Victors."

"Believe me, I _know_ ," she said, just a hint of bitterness in her tone. She suppressed it quickly and infused even more eagerness in its place. "Which is why District 2, which has the _most_ winners kindly loans them to Districts that _don't_ —6 and 8 as well as us. We aren't _alone_ in never having won, after all."

"Yeah, 'cause _that_ make it better," Posy muttered, following her through the door into the next car, which was set up as a dining room, with a man about her mother's age sitting on a couch with one foot on an ottoman, the other on the floor, languidly eating some grapes. He certainly wasn't one of the _recent_ Victors. She didn't recognize him.

"This is Paden," Torrie gushed. "He won the Seventh Hunger Games—the second of District 2's seven wins. He's seen a lot over the years—what works and what doesn't, so you should listen to him. Paden, let me introduce you to Posy. _She_ volunteered." Her face twisted into a moue of distaste, and she gestured slightly with her chin towards Kenny without _actually_ turning to him. "And this is Kenny."

Paden nodded, and waved a hand invitingly. "Pull up a seat," he offered. "Eat. Tell me about yourself."

"So let me see if I've got this straight," Posy said. "You're Paden, District 2, winner of the Seventh Games, and you're my—our—mentor."

"Yup," he said.

"You're District 2," she repeated.

"We have the most Champions, so we get loaned out sometimes to other districts," he explained. "When they don't have at least one of their own."

"Uh huh. So you get extra food and prezzies if, uh," she thought back to the Reapings she'd just watched and filled in the names, "if Merith or Zander get in, but I'm supposed to follow your advice?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm a champion. I get everything I want already. I don't need extra food. Or 'prezzies'."

"Whatever, you still wouldn't get anything good out of helping some other district beat yours out. You wouldn't exactly go home to cheers and honor."

He shrugged. "I mentored Tucker in District 5 when he won the Fourteenth Games," he commented.

"Eleven years ago," she pointed out.

Something dark passed through his eyes, too quickly for her to interpret. "Can't win them all," he said, voice a light counterpoint to whatever had been in his eyes. "And at two out of twenty-four, I'm still two up on you. So, what are you bringing to the party?"

She raised a brow.

"Any skills that could be adapted to fighting or survival? Weapons you already know how to use? Time spent in the wilds? History of brawling with the other kids?"

"There's a twenty foot electric fence between us and the wilds," she pointed out. "Weapons are forbidden. I think I got in a fight once when I was seven, but I lost."

"And yet you volunteered," he said, sounding frustrated.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Well. Like I said. I'd rather die than be the newest toy of that man. He's buried three wives and half a dozen lovers—and that's just the ones I know of."

A muscle flickered minutely under one eye, so fast she might have imagined it. Then he said, "If you're going in planning to die, then why do you care if you can trust me?"

She shrugged. "I'm not exactly _planning_ to die. But we both know I can't win."

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here," he stated. "That's why I'm not in District 8's train. I was asked to mentor them and refused. The boy's a lost cause, and unless the arena's dark, the girl, too. So the question is—are you going to try? 'Cause if not, I'll head for home."

She hesitated for a long moment, considered asking why he wasn't bothering to ask Kenny, admitted to herself that he'd already answered. Throughout the wait, he showed absolutely no sign of impatience, just sitting, looking at her steadily, not so much as blinking at her flicked glance over at Kenny. Finally, frustrated, she shrugged. "Well, I'm not planning to just roll over, if that's what you're asking."

He blew out a long, slow sigh. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's get started."

—

Precious kept herself still and straight, eyes forward, hands loose at her sides, as their mentors, Tarn and Mika, introduced themselves. Not that they had to. Quell's parents were legendary among the trainees, and as his future partner, she'd known them for years. She didn't remember her own parents, though her father had been a tribute, too. He hadn't come back, and she'd been born eight months after his death, shortly before her mother stood for her last reaping. She'd died shortly after. Not of the games, but of some illness. Precious never got the full details. They didn't matter. She'd lived her whole life under the smear of dishonor—not that her parents had been unwed and underage, but the much, much worse one. The dishonor of her father _losing_. Quell's parents had taken her in and raised her with him, raising both of them as tributes. Raising him to return to them triumphant and her to die protecting him, redeeming her honor. They'd been the youngest entrants the school had ever accepted, at ten, but they'd both started training long before that.

They didn't spend the train ride in idle chit-chat. Tarn and Mika drilled them on the histories, events that had taken place in previous Games, traps placed by the Gamemakers, strategies used by various Tributes. How people died, how they lived. They were given what-if scenarios to role-play, mysteries to figure out. Each of them snapped out their answers unhesitatingly, correctly, all according to plan. They knew how each of the 552 Tributes who died in the games had died, how each of the 24 survivors had won their way to the end. Knew thousands of alternatives, what minor changes might have made. They'd played strategy simulations and trained physically for this practically since birth. They were ready.

At least half of the what-ifs included Precious taking a wound or even a killing blow for her partner. She knew she couldn't hesitate. This was her destiny. To die like—and so unlike—her father, who had been one of the ones before the school, who had been truly chosen by random lot and had survived only three days before breaking his leg falling down a hill and being easy pickings for another tribute—not even the eventual champion. Not a good death. Hers would be better, she promised herself.

—

Cork's knee bounced with an overabundance of energy as he eagerly eyed the door and absent-mindedly nibbled on a pastry. Their mentors would be coming soon, and he was looking forward to seeing who they'd get and how closely they'd be working with each other. The door finally, _finally_ opened, and he jerked to his feet and bowed a greeting, catching Bella mimicking him a half-beat behind in his peripheral vision.

He recognized them instantly, of course. Mags, District 4's first winner, now thirty but still in top shape, all whipcord and steel, and Shank, the most recent of their four champion's, who had won just five years ago.

"You know who we are," Mags stated. "And we know who you are. Introductions would be meaningless. We'll both be training both of you rather than each taking one of you in hand, unless it becomes apparent that would be more efficacious. You're both here because you chose to be _and_ were chosen to be, which tells me that you're very brave, very stupid, and very good. It won't be enough. Not for both of you and probably not for either of you. We'll do our damnedest, though, to bring at least one of you home from this, and you, in order to help us meet this goal, will obey us, your stylist, and your prep team. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," he half-shouted, hearing Bella's voice mingle with his own, not remotely taken aback by the description of their intelligence or chances. True for Bella, maybe, and for most of their other Tributes over the years, but this game was _his_.

She rolled her eyes and Shank grinned at her and then at them. "So. We've gotten the paperwork on you both, but what do _you_ think your strengths and weaknesses are?"

—

Terent grinned at the way Tucker, their mentor, stayed well out of Isra's reach throughout their time together and especially as the train slowed to a stop. Clearly he'd been paying attention during the Reaping, because he wasn't taking any chances of being grabbed like the Peacekeeper and pulled in her wake like an oversize doll. He'd directed most of his conversation to Terent, sending only a few feelers at Isra before giving up. Terent sort of sympathized. It was hard to teach her anything, much less something as ambiguous as staying alive in an Arena of undisclosed description. Isra lit up as they got off the train and the audience cheered, waving both hands eagerly and looking around in wonder at the bizarre hairstyles and outfits they were displaying, and describing both excitedly. "Look at the funny-looking little man who looks like a purple flower!" she shrieked, pointing and laughing joyfully. "Do the petals come off? Look at the fat woman who looks like a cabbage!"

He looked around anxiously, but most of those picked out seemed more prone to strutting at having been noticed than offended at her descriptions, so he just kept one hand on her wildly waving arm to keep her going the right way as he led her after Tucker.

—

Dug _howled_ as they stripped another line of hair off him, and Myra clenched her teeth against her own pain and then laughed at him mockingly.

"Why?" he demanded, struggling _again_ to get off the table and out of their hands, but his prep team had finally tied him down and he wasn't going anywhere fast. "I'm not a fucking _girl_!"

"Shut _up_ , Tribute," their mentor, Doran, the kid who won for two just last year, snarled. "God, I'm not surprised you people have never won, you have no fucking _discipline_. Shut up, stay still, and let your fucking prep team do their part in trying to save your miserable little life!"

"And how the fuck would _this_ —"

"Because nobody'll sponsor you if you look like a fucking muttation," the kid snapped. "The Capitol likes their Tributes sleek and pretty, and that's what we goddamn _give_ them. A few guys can pull off _some_ hair—but you look like your father was a bear or something, and they will _not_ enjoy the view. So shut up and take it like a fucking man!"

"Why should I have to do what _you_ say?" Dug demanded. "You're fucking District 2!"

"And we won three of the last four fucking games, seven, total, over the fucking years, and so you _should_ realize that I know what I'm fucking talking about!"

"Our fucking mentor should be from our own fucking district!"

"Is it my goddamn fault that your district is too full of losers and weaklings to have a fucking Victor?" He grinned, cold and toothy. "Well—I guess it is, partly, since I killed one of yours last year with my own fucking hands. Now I'm doing my best to _give_ you assholes a Victor, and you're bitching and moaning like three-year-olds."

"And why the _fuck_ should you be trying—" he broke off with another howl as still more hair was removed. Myra, with a bit less surface area, was almost done, they were looking for any missed patches.

"Trying to help one of you assholes to win? Partly so I don't have to mentor here _next_ fucking year," he snapped. "Partly because if I prove myself with you, I can be a regular District 2 mentor. Partly because I goddamn _said_ I would before I realized what pains in the fucking ass you would be. I don't know how the fuck Paden puts up with non-careers every year, I really fucking don't."

—

Zander raised his arms on command, let the cloak settle about his shoulders, turned forty-five degrees, paused, turned again, squatted, stood, jumped, struck a pose, waved, smiled—all as his stylist ordered, testing the drape and flow of the fabric, how it sat as he moved, how it worked with his eyes, his skin, his smile. He could vaguely hear Merith doing the same at the other side of the room over the sounds of cloth rippling, the appreciative murmurs and compliments and occasionally giddy giggle of the team, and the instructions of the stylist. Finally, the man stepped away from him with a satisfied smile. "Good," he stated. "You're going to make an impression."

He glanced at himself in the mirror and didn't comment on the ridiculous picture he made. The stylist knew best what the Capitol wanted, after all, so he offered a quiet thanks and waited to be ushered out of the room to the hall where they'd await their chariot. He consoled himself with the fact that Merith looked every bit as absurd as himself, and both prep teams were in raptures over them both. That could, presumably, be used to judge the feeling of Capitolians in general, which implied that they looked good by local standards.

—

"No," Posy said.

Paden exchanged a few quiet words with Ingenuus, her stylist, and then closed the door after him and the rest of the prep team before turning to Posy. "Didn't we just get done talking about how your stylist needs to make you noticeable?" Paden said patiently. "In order to get through this, you need sponsors. In order to get sponsors, you need to be remembered. In order to be remembered, you need to make _more_ of an impression than the eleven pairs that went through ahead of you."

"You said it," she agreed. "And I listened. And I was a good girl when they cleaned me up and plucked me and buffed me and the whole nine yards. But I am _not_ going out in public in _that_. Not without a whole lot more over the top."

 _That_ , as it happened, was a miner's headlamp, a whole lot of black body glitter, and a big silver chastity belt.

"Look," he said, still patiently. "The thing everyone remembers about you right now was you shouting that you'd rather be a Tribute than be touched by a man. That made an impression. People loved it. They loved _you_. Now in order to take advantage of that, to capitalize on it, your stylist came up with this theme. Untouchable. This will make them _see_ you. And remember you. And, if we play our cards right, _sponsor_ you."

"It's humiliating!" she shouted.

He smiled grimly. "You don't know what 'humiliating' is," he said, voice serious. "Have you noticed most of the stylists are young? There's a reason for that. When the Games started, it was more about punishment than entertainment still."

"It's _still_ about—"

"Not here," he interrupted. "In the Capitol, the mood has changed. The youngsters love the show, they like backstories and cheer for their favorites. They like the drama and the beauty and the thrill of the whole thing. And they might mouth the words that it's to remind the Districts not to rebel again, but for most of them that's not really the point anymore. But it used to be. And the stylists goals, originally, weren't to make you memorable, make you loved, they were simply to hurt the Districts more. To humiliate them as much as humanly possible. You'll see a touch of it this year. They pulled old Frugius out of retirement to style for that rebel kid." A hint of a shudder passed through him, and Posy didn't think it was for show. "You wanna feel sorry for someone, keep your sympathy for him rather than yourself. I don't know what Frugius has planned, but I guarantee the goal isn't going to be to make the people love the kid."

"But—"

"No buts. I'm going to bring your team back in, and you're going to let them do their thing. Because it will help to give you a chance in the days ahead. Understood?"

She scowled at him but, reluctantly, nodded.

They flooded back in and surrounded her like bees on a flower, smudging her with the glitter, carefully working her hair, helping her into the revolting belt. Finally, they pulled her in front of a mirror and Ingenuus beamed into it beside her. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you _think_?"

"I really wish you guys were going in there with me," she answered honestly.

They _aww_ ed and apparently thought she meant it as a compliment, though she saw Paden's reflection raise one hand to his mouth to hide a grin.

Kenny, face still a little damp from the tears he'd shed as they cleaned and de-haired him, walked miserably downstairs beside her as they were taken to the hall where they'd gather before entering their chariots. He looked miserable, which wasn't exactly fair, she thought, rather jealous of his sleeveless coverall and headlamp. He hardly looked like they'd given him a costume at all.

She was a little comforted at the absurdity of the other outfits Tributes were wearing as they arrived, some with more aplomb than others. Some looked as humiliated as she felt, some looked like anything they wore would be worthy merely by the fact that it touched them, and more than a few looked like they were too out of touch with reality to know what had been put on them. And then District 9 arrived and she understood what Paden had been trying to explain to her.

Her outfit was embarrassing. Grant's was humiliating.

It wasn't, quite, obscene. Not explicitly, anyway. But there was something … horrific about it, and not simply that they'd dressed him as a girl, the drape of the pure white cloth providing curves he didn't have, a wig giving him silky tresses that tumbled about his shoulders. Part of it was the way the clothes had been artfully disheveled, making it look like he'd been pawed at. Part of it was the make-up, the exaggeratedly heavy hand, making him gaudy and overdone—and then deliberately (she hoped, because, God, she hoped nobody had been hitting and forcing kisses on him, which is what his heavy, bruised lips, smeared eyes, and bruises on his cheeks under heavy make-up looked like—but then, some of the layers of bruises looked yellow or green, implying age they hadn't had time to reach) smudged, the heaviness and over-bright colors suggesting that they weren't so much dressing him up as a girl but as a whore—and a recently—used one. More dark purple and blue ringed his neck and wrists and ankles over bare feet.

She could barely tell that, under that painted mask, his expression was tightly guarded, his face perfectly still. He _looked_ heavy-eyed and desperately _wanting_. She glanced again, and swallowed, seeing the thin white fabric of his costume was thin enough to show more fake (probably?) bruises on his sides and thighs as well hinting at dark nipples and pubic hair. And then there was the way he kept his hands deliberately away from his body, and the way he flinched every time they got a little too close to the fabric or rose higher than his shoulders. Something to keep him from disturbing the costume, no doubt. She'd have to be restrained to be forced into that travesty, too. She thought his stylist was ostensibly going for some sort of harvest sacrifice theme for the District that was the Capitol's breadbasket—but it seemed obvious that really they were just trying to hurt him.

A low whistle made her turn sharply to see the boy from 6, the slimy one, staring at Grant, practically salivating, eyes tracking up and down the slim body in obvious appreciation, lingering at the false bruises on his thighs. "Fuck, prettiest girl here ain't even a girl," he said, obviously intending to be overheard.

The girl from his district shot him a disgusted glance. "What happened to not being gay?" she mocked.

"Still not," he said, not bothering to take his eyes off the prize before him, not in the least shamed by her words. "Get him squirming under me, and I swear I'll find a cunt, slick and ready, won't I, rebel?" he asked stalking forward. He reached out to grab the boy, maybe to prove his point right there or something, and Grant, who hadn't shown any sign of having heard him or seen his approach, turned slightly towards him and, without warning, kicked out, his bare foot connecting solidly with the older boy's crotch.

Dug collapsed to the ground swearing and hissing threats, as peacekeepers peacemakers and stylists and mentors and guides gathered about them shouting about fighting and rules and the parade that was about to begin.

"Sorry," Grant commented, not sounding sorry. "Frugius was extremely insistent that I not let anything muss my costume, and he was reaching for my face. It was the only thing I had time to do, and my feet had minimal work done on them, so it seemed the safest response. He should be on _his_ feet again in plenty of time for the parade."

The final couple districts made their way down, they were all ushered into their chariots (including Dug, who looked a little pale but mostly angry and stood almost completely straight), and the parade began. Posy had been told not to wave, but merely to stand straight with her chin up and look aloof. She was glad enough to do that much, at least.


	3. Chapter 3: Training

**C** **hapter Three: Training**

Frustrated, Jedric stared dumbly at the knot-tying station, following the motions of the instructor and her students as they worked at various knots. But they kept getting in his way, moving their bodies between him and their hands, asking the wrong questions, not being helpful. It wasn't like he could move in and do it himself. That wouldn't fit the part he was playing. But underestimating him wouldn't be good enough if he really didn't _have_ any skills, so he was doing his best to learn without being obvious about it.

The crazy girl from 11 slipped into the station, picked up a string, and watched with an odd little smile on her lips as the instructor demonstrated a knot. Then she set one hip on the table, which turned her so that she was facing exactly towards Jedric, and tied it. He blinked. Now if she only kept that up…

She did. Knot after knot done facing him, where he could examine every intricacy. More than once as they got more complicated, sometimes repeating a single confusing point in one several times before completing it. And always right there. When he decided he had enough in his head and wouldn't be able to watch any more knots without confusing them until he had a chance to find some kind of string to practice on to lock them into his memory, he started to turn away to go gaze blankly at the next station, edible plants.

The crazy girl got up at the same time, and skipped past him, her hand brushing his as she went by. Not just brushing. She slipped something over his wrist. He couldn't look down, but he fingered it a little. It was a string about two feet long, doubled over and tied in a slip knot with the loose ends dangling. He worked it up into his hand and unobtrusively stuffed it into his pocket, eyes blank and gazing dumbly ahead, which just happened to be where the crazy girl was examining edible plants, lifting them and looking at them closely, and giving him an excellent view while she was at it. He didn't let anything cross his face, but he watched her as closely as he watched the plants, certain now that she was watching him. Experimentally, he focused on one of the plants on the table for a moment, some kind of tuber. She set aside the berries she was looking at, picked up the tuber, and started examining it at all angles, asking the instructor about it, without ever acknowledging his gaze.

Jedric hesitated, wondering if he should spurn the gift of help, pretend he hadn't noticed. She could betray him, could spill his secret, ruin the only advantage he had. But the fact was, he needed the help. And nobody was likely to take her very seriously anyway, she was always looking at nothing and doing things that didn't make sense. He decided that the benefits outweighed the risks and settled into studying, just close enough that he could read the instructor's lips and make out the details of the plants. At one point the man leading this booth called him over and he blinked and moved forward, picking things up and putting them down when to and they were pointed at, but not giving any sign that he was learning or retaining anything. The teacher turned his attention to more promising students, and Jedric faded back away.

—

Rosin sat down and closed his eyes and told himself he wasn't hungry. He didn't really believe himself. Around him, the others ate, but the Capitol's servants didn't intrude on the tributes lunch breaks. He would be fed dinner, he reminded himself. It wasn't so far away. And it wasn't like he was spending energy like the rest of the Tributes. He wasn't playing with weapons or ropes or attempting physical feats. He wandered the knowledge booths, learning about plants and animals and clay and weather. He didn't have anything better to do. He wasn't scared any more. He knew what was going to happen and he knew what he was going to do. There wasn't any point being scared. Just like there wasn't any point being hungry. Which he wasn't, he reminded himself again.

A weight settled next to him and he opened his eyes to see the girl from 9 settling her heavily laden tray as she sat. He hadn't really noticed her before. She was one of the ones chosen for mental defects, he thought, but with all the drama around Grant going on in her district she sort of vanished into the background. Possibly she would anyway. She wasn't short or tall or big or small or pretty or ugly. Just a girl, one you could forget as soon as you looked away from her.

"Hey," she said, and her voice was a little deeper and rougher than he was expecting. "I'm Tillie."

"Rosin," he said.

She nodded. Then she lifted her soup spoon and held it to his lips.

He hesitated. "You don't—"

Taking advantage of his open mouth, she slipped it inside his mouth, and he was amazed again at the richness of flavors the food in the Capitol had. He swallowed. "You really don't have to," he said. "I'm fine. I'll eat at dinner."

She snorted, the sound loud but somehow sympathetic rather than mocking. "You're thirteen," she said drily. "You must be starving."

"I'm fine," he repeated, a little more firmly.

She hesitated, then said. "Well, I'm not. Let me? Please?"

He blinked, focusing in on her face, and saw the tears in her eyes, the panic barely trapped behind her face, saw the way her hand was trembling just a little.

"I can do this," she said. "Please?"

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. The food was good. He might as well enjoy it. And if it would help her somehow keep her own demons at bay, then she might as well help him. It wasn't like he was hiding his weakness, after all. It wasn't like he could if he tried.

The girl from 12 set her tray down across from them, and offered them both a smile. "I'm Posy," she said.

Like anyone forgot the one who volunteered. And then that costume… He blushed a little, not quite able to look straight at her. "Yeah," he said. "Rosin."

"I'm Tillie," his babysitter said, offering another bite to him.

—

Grant sat in a corner where he could keep an eye on the others. The tables in the other corners had been taken by the pairs from 1, 2, and 4, who were all watching everyone else around, weighing them, judging them, planning. The ones from 1 looked comfortable together, though formal. The girl brought the boy his food, and he thanked her politely but coolly. They talked the most of the three sets, appearing to be planning. They were going to work together. That was … not unheard of, but unusual. The pair from 2 exchanged occasional laconic comments that he doubted had much to do with strategy. They had the more typical dynamic. Comfortable from training together but never forgetting that they were competition. The two from 4 were sniping at each other as much as at everyone else around.

The others were more mixed up in the rest of the room. Tillie was feeding the poor armless bastard. She'd talked some on the train about her babysitting job, and he figured maybe it gave her a little sense of normalcy. He had no illusions about her lasting any length of time, and tried not to talk to her too much. The volunteer from 12 was sitting with them and chatting. The creepy asshole from 6 was sitting a couple tables away, eyes locked on Grant, eating with evident enjoyment and more than a little extraneous finger-licking and utensil-fondling. The girl from 6 was sneering at him in evident disgust—but not leaving.

The girl from 5 was talking like an excited six year old about all the new games she was learning to play, while the boy from her district looked miserable and encouraged her to keep eating. Several of the other ones with extreme mental difficulties had been herded into a corner and told to eat, and were doing so. And the one who was always watching things that weren't there—was sliding into the seat next to him and offering him a wry smile.

He shifted a little away from her. "Hi," she chirped. "I'm Tanna."

"Grant," he said reluctantly.

"Oh, yeah, I know." She grinned, her eyes seeming to be looking at the air in front of him rather than straight at him. She lifted one hand towards him, patted at something that wasn't there, and then lifted the arm up, gaze following it, and then the arm slowly dropping while her eyes kept moving, off to the corner where the pair from 1 sat, and bit her lip thoughtfully, flinching just a little. Then her eyes shot away from them to 6. "You better watch out for him," she said. "He's smudgy and sharp and … glimmery. Bad glimmery. Greasy?" she wondered aloud. "You're a different glimmery. Glittery, more."

He gritted his teeth and reminded himself that crazy people couldn't help their crazy and it wasn't fair to snap at them for it. "I'm not glittery," he said, trying not to let his tone be sharp.

She laughed. Not at him. Just in general. "Nobody ever sees," she said, and it sounded almost like she was agreeing, or at least accepting. Her eyes wandered back to the 1s and she did that little flinch thing again.

"What is it?" he asked.

"She's … hot pink and lime green with electric purple and orange flashes," she said. "It sort of hurts to look at. But it's hard to look away." She dragged her eyes away as though it took an effort of will, and back to him, then relaxed. "But you're easy to look at."

He suppressed a flinch of his own, eyes unconsciously flicking back to the 6 table, where the man grinned widely at him and kissed at the air. Distastefully, he looked away again, focusing on his lunch.

The girl—Tanna—appeared to be done with talking, too, as she practically inhaled her food next to him.

—

"Do you think they're going to work together?" Merith asked curiously, her eyes playing over the pair from 1 again.

"Alliances don't work," Zander said shortly. "It's been proved again and again. Someone turns on the other when they aren't expecting it, and—"

"Some kind of Alliances might work. If they agreed to work together till a certain point."

"Yeah, and the best time to turn on the other one would be _before_ that point, obviously," he said. "Worse to have someone behind you with reason to put a knife in your back than to know up front everyone's your enemy."

She shrugged. "I dunno. It seems like you could work something out for mutual advantage—getting a better chance at the Cornucopia, for instance. Get rid of everyone else nearby together and then take your time going through the loot."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. There's gonna be at least six of us with skill, and call it three or four more with at least limited potential. You'd have to get enough of them in on it that you could take down or drive off the others, and that would take a lot. Two wouldn't be enough. Four—possibly, but possibly not. And if you fail, you're opening yourself up to major fighting at the very start of the game, risking an injury that will slow you down for the rest on the off chance that these supposed allies won't kill you while you think they're on your side. Lunacy."

"I think they're planning to work together," she said, not looking away from 1s' table. Everything he said was true—and yet it seemed like the advantage could be enough to make it worth it. Just for the beginning. Just until the loot was divvied up. Of course you'd still have to watch your back, but even an uneasy alliance seemed like it had some potential. But … he was right. She wouldn't trust him at her back and she didn't like how the 1s interacted, a little too close. They couldn't be trusted. And the 4s were barely civil with each other now, a thin film of playful friendliness for the audience covering a dislike deep enough that it might be hatred. But it seemed such a waste.

She didn't really listen to Zander as he talked on about something meaningless. She was sure they were going to work together. The 1s. And that meant they had to be taken down quickly.

—

Armscye wove another snare by feel, hearing her instructor's praise but ignoring it. Unless he was saying something to correct her, it was meaningless. She knew, oh, she knew just how slim her chances were, but they weren't—quite—nonexistent. They could have a dark arena. She heard a sound to one side and knew it was 4-boy. He was moving quietly, but her hearing was sharp and there was a jauntiness to his step that was unmistakable. A soft snicker a station away—that was 6-boy, probably had something to do with 9-boy again. He seemed a little obsessed, though maybe that was for show. If not, it was as dangerous a weakness as any other. You couldn't be so focused on just one.

Nearer, 5-boy was talking a little too loudly to the snare instructor, obviously frustrated. "The ropes won't _twist_ right," she said. "It keeps going the wrong way!"

Armscye ignored her, pulled the knots out of her current snare and tied another, one she'd learned the day before, making sure she still had it. Then another. Most of her attention tracking everything around her, who was where, what they were doing, how well they were doing it. Her senses had improved immensely in the years since the accident. She could hear better than anyone knew. She couldn't navigate entirely by it or anything, but she always knew when someone was near, even if they weren't moving. She could hear their breathing. Chances were good it wouldn't be enough. If the arena was noisy, she would have nothing. If it was lit-well, she'd die early on. That was given. But it could be a cave. Or a murky forest with very little light. It _could_ happen. And if it did, she'd have a chance. If it was dark enough, she'd even have a major advantage.

Ven had promised to shout out how much light there was as soon as they could see. He was going to die. They both knew that. She was disabled in a way that could, potentially, become an advantage. He was simply crippled. There could be no advantage from not being able to walk faster than a shuffle. She shoved that thought away. It wouldn't help her. She couldn't get caught up in his certain death, she had to focus on the slim possibility of her own survival.

She moved to the next station, recognized it by scent as fire-starting, and skipped it. She'd die of cold and eat meat raw before she made a light for someone else to see by. Next was knife-throwing. Well. It wouldn't hurt to try. She'd thrown things without her eyes before, and could target somewhat with her ears. She waited politely for the instructor to finish with 6-girl and then 10-girl and then moved forward to take his attention herself for a time.

There was some chance. She would make the most of it.

—

Nessa took a break from knife throwing and went to the sling station. Upon reflection, it seemed like a good potential focus. Even if she didn't find a sling, it seemed like she could make one from her clothing or something, and almost any environment would have rocks. She watched those ahead of her carefully, seeing what kind of motions they were making, what kind of effects they were achieving. It seemed difficult to aim, but she could be patient. The weird girl from 10 kept getting distracted by the swinging sling, her own or anyone else's, watching the motion with dazed eyes until she faltered and dropped the stone, rarely effectively releasing it. She cocked a brow at Jedric and found him wearing his cow face, not showing any of the frustration she was sure he was feeling. He had, she thought, some chance of winning. Nobody watched him. They barely even glanced at him, showing the same contempt for him they did the twins from 4. She knew better. Maybe he hadn't always been top of his class in school, but he'd always been in the top few percent except when the teachers refused to give him written material or made sure to speak slowly and facing him so he could read their lips. He was far from stupid.

On the other hand, he really _was_ deaf, and that would be a huge disadvantage. And she didn't see how he could have any real skill in fighting or anything, and how much could you really learn just by watching? Still, though. He had a chance, she thought. She could ruin it by giving him away, but why bother? The chances of it coming down to the two of them were slimmer than slim, and if they did, she knew both his intelligence and his weakness and how he compensated for it and would be able to beat him, she thought. Better him than one of the careers. His secret did her no harm, and she was glad for him to keep it.

Apparently he gave up on the sling, because he shambled away, dull-eyed, to the next station, and, shortly after, 11-girl stopped twirling her strap of leather and wandered on as well. Coincidentally, winding up in the same spot. She shook her head in amusement and slipped forward to draw the teacher's attention. She was pretty sure she wasn't the only one who knew the secret, but 11-girl didn't seem likely to share it, either.

—

Myra had a system. She ignored the swords and daggers and focused on the quarterstaff. By her way of figuring, she could probably find or make something that would do her some good as a staff, and it would be a much better bet than trying to get some specific item from the Cornucopia without getting herself killed over it. And better to have a thorough grounding on one thing than useless surface knowledge on half a dozen she'd never get a chance to use. When she got too physically tired to continue she went to some of the knowledge stations, working on poisonous and edible and medicinal plants, tracking, everything she could learn. When she'd recovered enough, she worked on hand-to-hand fighting until she could barely drag herself back to her feet. Then back to the knowledge booths, and then back to the staff. Doran had basically washed his hands of her when she refused to follow his advice of learning all the weapons and basically ignoring everything else. She didn't really care. He'd had years to prepare for his Games, she had days. That changed the strategy, she thought.

Every now and then, when she had time, her eyes flicked to Dug and a little smile played across her lips. He was going to die in the coming days. He didn't think he would. He thought he was going to be first Victor of 6, go back the conquering hero, and live a life of excess with nobody daring to lift a finger against him. He thought he was going back to Misty. She cracked her quarterstaff up into the groin of a practice dummy hard enough to break the outer skin, and saw a couple of the guys who were near enough to notice pale a little. Dug wasn't one of them. That was okay. When his turn came, it wouldn't be a dummy she was hitting.

She thought of Misty sobbing and broken after burying her father, terrified of going home because she knew _he_ knew where home was, terrified of being alone, terrified of—everything, really. And hating herself for causing her father's death, for telling him about what had happened, for _letting_ it happen, for being alone, for wearing the wrong clothes, for not fighting enough, for losing.

She released another flurry of blows, hitting every painful spot she'd learned in the hand-to-hand lessons or here, but not going for a killing blow. After all. She didn't want it to be easy.

 _"Don't let him hurt you—Myra, Myra, you can't let him hurt you when you're there."_

Misty had cried as she'd bid her goodbye, and she'd promised. Not to let him hurt her. And she'd known that her mission in the Games was a little different from most. Winning would be nice. She'd like to win. But the chances of that were slim. Her chances of achieving her _primary_ objective, though, were much higher. She was going to kill Dug Coggen. Preferably slowly and painfully.

She dropped the staff from fingers trembling with exhaustion and stood for a moment, catching her breath. Feeling Misty's soft hair under her cheek, the other girl's warm body in her arms, shaking with terror and pain and misery. Tears so hot they felt like they should scar burning into her shoulder. Never again, she promised herself. Whatever else happened, _he_ was _never_ going home.

—

Cork's eyes slipped for the thousandth time across the hall to the giant with the mind of a little kid. This time, he saw the guy from her district looking anxiously around and then slipping away from her, probably hitting the restrooms. He grinned and didn't hesitate, bouncing up to her and grinning. "Hi!" he said. "I'm Cork!"

She grinned back, all innocence. "I'm Isra!" she said happily. "Are you playing new games, too?"

He nodded eagerly. "It's fun, isn't it? I've played most of them before, but I like playing with new people. Are you meeting lots of friends?"

She pouted, lower lip sticking out, brows drawing down. "Terent says people here aren't friends," she said sadly. "Terent says everyone here is bad people. Terent says not to talk to anyone." Her mouth opened in a big O. "Are you bad people? Terent will be mad at me!"

"Me? No, I just want to play!" he said, piling on the eagerness and innocence. She was stupid, that was plain. Maybe stupid enough to team up with. Because she was, without a doubt, extremely strong, and if he could convince her that she should protect him, well, that would be useful. He was almost entirely certain she was too stupid to turn on him, wasn't sure she understood what killing was to start with and was quite sure she didn't understand the Games and what would be happening. That made her safe, and the strength made her useful. If he could just convince her that he was a friend—preferably a better friend than Terent.

When her district mate came back, the two of them were play-fighting, Cork letting her pin him and then squirming away and tickling her, making her howl with laughter. Terent looked first startled, then worried—and then he backed off and focused on his own training. After all, if he kept himself in the role of babysitter, he had zero chance of winning. And Isra was clearly just fine with Cork.

—

Dirk sat in the corner with the idiot twins from 3 and wished that throwing himself off the building had worked. All that work getting himself up to the roof and then he couldn't even jump off. Fucking Capitol. Fucking games. Fucking assholes who fucking voted for him. He fought back tears for the millionth time. They wouldn't help. He was gonna die. He couldn't even fucking _walk_ and they were making him go in. They said he couldn't even have his crutches—that they were too big to count as a tribute token. So there he'd be sitting on his fucking pedestal or crawling away from it.

He glared around at the other Tributes, the lucky ones, the ones who could actually kill each other and get out of this mess. Or the ones too stupid to know what was going on like his idiot district mate who'd laughed right there on the stage. Moron. She was going to die almost as fast as him. Almost as fast as the poor bastard without arms. He glared malevolently at the bastard in question. No arms, no chance, no hope, and yet he seemed completely calm, even smiling as he chatted with a couple of the girls from other districts. Maybe he was another one of the idiots—he hadn't seemed like it, but maybe he was.

Some of them had tried talking to Dirk, too, trying to act like they were friends. As if he couldn't see the mockery in their eyes—they all knew he was going to die, and they were all glad that he was one more who wasn't a risk to them. Well fuck them, he wasn't going to talk, wasn't going to pretend to be friends, to make it any easier on them. They were all fucking murderers anyway.

It wasn't _fair_. None of this was fair, and if he could kill everyone who'd voted for him, he would. _They_ deserved it. After all, _they_ were killing him.


	4. Chapter 4: Scores

**Chapter Four: Scoring**

Quell paced into the room, bowed formally to the Gamemakers, who were sitting attentively on their dais, food untouched beside them, all eyes on him. He felt a flicker of pride inside and forced it down. There was no room for that here. Emotions couldn't help him, they only betrayed. He could only succeed through awareness and reason, couldn't let any of that be blurred by anything softer. He picked up a sword went through the most difficult kata he'd learned, unhesitatingly, every motion almost mechanical in its perfection. It ended with four beheaded practice dummies, three missing hands, and one, at the end, skewered. Without pause, he dropped the sword, rolled, picked up an axe, and chopped three more dummies in half with a flurry of motion.

He went through all the melee weapons and then moved on to the distance—throwing knives, sling, crossbow, longbow—each target perfect. Just as he'd been taught. There was no room for imperfection, there was no such thing as 'good enough'. He'd learned before he was seven that if it wasn't the geometric center of the bullseye he would keep going until it was. In the rain in the snow in the heat of summer with sweat pouring off him, with his arms so weak he could barely lift the weapons, he would forge onwards because if it wasn't perfect, they'd be disappointed. They wouldn't beat him. They wouldn't refuse to feed him. But there would be no proud pats on the back, no words of approval, just those thinned lips and averted eyes that told him he would never be good _enough_.

His last arrow pierced a bullseye all the way across the gymnasium with enough strength that it passed all the way through the target and sank an inch into the wall behind it. He set the bow back on its stand, bowed again to the murmuring audience, and said, voice strong and clear with no hint of the breathlessness that threatened him, "Thank you for your consideration."

—

Precious bowed her head slightly as Quell went in to be judged, and sank herself into meditation, calming herself. The calm never came as easily to her as to Quell. She timed her breaths, deliberately slowing them, thinking of nothing else, until they came to take her in. Then she rose and strode out of the dining room and to the gymnasium, seeing the signs of the hurriedly replaced practice dummies. The Gamemakers were murmuring among themselves, though they quieted as she approached the center of the room, looking at her with interest. Quell had clearly made an impression and they were wondering what else District 1 had to offer. Well. Hopefully she wouldn't disappoint.

She had discussed this at length with Tarn and Mika and they had agreed that there was no point in a repeat of Quell's comprehensive overview. She was best with daggers—she lacked Quell's inhuman precision, but she had a sort of intuition with them that even he couldn't match. It had been tested intensively and reluctantly accepted with the caveat that anything so ephemeral and un-trackable was never to be relied upon. That couldn't be shown without an actual opponent present, that unnatural ability to know an opening was coming before there was any real way to do so, but she could still show her mastery.

She bowed to them, took a knife in each hand, and began to dance among the 'bodies', allowing the peace of half-trance to smooth her motions and her expressions without slowing her, whirling and slicing, leaping and diving, until her time was up and she realized, humiliated, that she'd allowed herself to _enjoy_ the experience, failing completely to shut out all emotion. She tried not to feel her regret as she put the knives away, though her fingers lingered a bit despite themselves, and then she bowed again, murmured her thanks, and left.

—

Zander cocked a brow at the judges and offered them a grin as he bowed just a _little_ too briefly to be considered fully respectful. His trainers had, on reflection, decided that his insouciance was part of his charm and might actually appeal to some potential sponsors and, thusly, the Gamemakers. With the gradual move from punishment to entertainment, the call was less and less for Tributes to show that they knew their place (which was, of course, firmly below the heel of the Capitol) and more and more to put on a good show. All that meant for him was that his trainers encouraged him to do what came naturally. So he winked at the youngest and prettiest of the Gamemakers, who flushed a little and took a large sip of her drink to hide it, looked up and down the rest of them, and then strolled over to the weapons rack, whole attitude saying that he already knew he was the best and was just giving them a show because they'd asked.

—

Cork barely paused for the requisite bow to the judges before grabbing a dagger from the weapons rack and slicing the throat of the nearest dummy. Then he dove, rolled, and sliced the hamstring of another before leaving it to bleed out and moving on to his next victim. He preferred to attack from behind, from low, from high—anywhere they wouldn't see him coming, anywhere he'd have an advantage. A lot of tributes in the Games he'd seen in the past ignored those locked in combat with someone else, letting them fight it out and focusing on others. That wasn't going to be him. No, he was going to kill whoever was stronger while they were distracted, leaving him the weaker to destroy at his leisure.

He jabbed a knife into a dummy's thigh, imagining the rush of blood as he severed the femoral artery, dragged it up, seeing, from the corner of his eye, a couple of the male Gamemakers crossing their legs defensively, and left it to bleed out, moving on to the next one, grinning so wide his face hurt. That was okay. It was a good sort of pain.

—

Isra bounced into the room and smiled at the people who were eating. She sniffed and moved closer. "Can I have some?" she asked hopefully as she recognized something with fruit and bread and lots of sugar that she'd had before. "I've had lots of good food here!"

The people looked at each other—people did that a lot. Then the oldest one shrugged, and the one with the fruit things picked one of them up and gave it to her. "Do you like it here?" she asked.

Isra nodded eagerly, stuffing the fruit thing into her mouth and grinning around the juice and crumbs that ran down her face. They wouldn't get mad at her for staining her shirt again, not like home. They never got mad at her here. She finished the thing, scrubbing her hands on her shirt and thighs, and looked over the rest of the food.

"Isn't there something you'd like to show us?" the woman who'd given her the treat asked. "Something that you've learned since you got here?"

Isra laughed, nodding again. "I forgot!" she said. "I'm supposed to show you I'm strong," she confided, looking around and then going to where the weights were, the really big ones that were as heavy as the crates at her cousin's store. "I'm awful strong," she explained, picking up the biggest one and whirling in a circle, dancing with it. "And I like to dance! Only Carter says I'm not very good," she added sadly, throwing the weight. It hit one of the big dolls and she laughed as it broke. They never got mad when she broke things here, either. "I like it anyway though!" she said, whirling in a circle with her arms out and throwing her head back.

"Thank you, dear," the woman said, and there was that funny catch in her voice that was in a lot of the voices here. Tucker, who said he was her trainer, and Persimmon, who was kind of mean but made her pretty, and some of the other Tributes and Terent's—and her Daddy's when he came to say bye. "You can leave for now. Would you like another tart for your walk back?"

She grinned, breaking off spinning and stumbling a little with the pleasant dizziness, then staggered to the front to take the fruit thing—the tart!—and even remembered to thank her before she left. Tucker was gonna be proud of her! He said she should thank them at the end.

—

"Here's the thing," Dug said conversationally, smirking up at the Gamemakers, meeting one set of eyes after the other over the dummy he'd first tied up with a length of rope and was now brutally beating with hands and feet and occasionally stick. "Maybe I'm not as good at killing kids as them's trained for it, the careers. But these days, you want a show. And me, I can give you as show. That kid Quell, fuck, I'm sure he can tell you fifty-seven ways to kill a man with a fork or whatever. But nobody's gonna give a shit, 'cause the whole time he does it, they'll see it as just another day in the office, or whatever. No passion, that guy. Me, I've got passion." He grinned, remembering Misty under him and imagining the pretty little girl-boy with the purple eyes. "And you—you've got that rebel cunt in the Games and I guess not much of nobody figures he got chose accidental-like. Nobody thinks he's gonna win. Nobody thinks he's gonna live. But do you want him killed fast with a quick slit throat or whatever? Or do you want a real lesson taught? A reminder that nobody loves a rebel? Way I figure, you have more impact on sponsors'n anyone else. And sponsors can mean you live or die. You get me my sponsors, and I get you your lesson. Simple as that."

He grinned again, snapped the dummy's neck, and swaggered out of the room.

—

Rosin slipped into the room, sat cross-legged on the floor at the exact center of it, and closed his eyes. There was no point in trying to put on a show, but he had no intention of showing them anything but calm and reserve. They were absolutely silent throughout the minutes he sat there, no talking, no silverware clinking—nothing. Finally, when his internal clock told him that the time was up, he rose smoothly to his feet, looked from one of them to the next, taking in each face, each of them now familiar from all the training sessions. They all looked back. None of them spoke. He nodded, turned, and left.

—

Grant walked into the room, hands in his pockets, and looked over the Gamemakers, who sneered and glared and, occasionally, leered back. "I'm sure you've already decided what score would give me the most trouble and are planning to give it to me," he said. "So I'm just gonna hang out here for the requisite fifteen minutes imagining you and _your_ children in the Arena. Preferably together." Which was precisely what he did. And judging by the expressions on their faces, just a little bit of nervousness or _something_ under the anger and the superiority, they knew it. They looked just a _hint_ relieved when he finally left.

He took that as a win.

—

A hand between his shoulders gently pushed Jedric into the gymnasium, and he stumbled forward a few steps before awkwardly catching himself and looking around. Seeing everyone looking at him from the dais, he froze and stared back. He backed a step away in a show of nerves, and glanced around as though for inspiration. Then he coughed, choked a little, and spat on the floor. Then blushed and stepped in front of it as though to hide the evidence. He continued the charade as the slight interest they had at the start gave way to disgust and then boredom and they stopped watching him altogether, eating and talking as though he weren't there at all.

One of them finally looked up and he read the lips saying "You can go," but it was easy enough to pretend ignorance and keep standing there dully. Finally someone came in behind him, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him through the door and back into the hands of his handlers.

—

Dirk stumbled into the gymnasium, catching himself on his crutches, and looked around frantically. There had to be something he could do to show them he wasn't going to die, something that would let him live. The Gamemakers were up on their stage, drinking and eating and talking as though they weren't preparing to score him, to give a chance of his survival, to tell him he was going to die in a few days. They weren't even looking at him, and he felt his throat start to close with that familiar panic. He moved over to the edible plants station and displayed how much he'd learned, how many foods he'd recognize now, how he could survive—if only nobody were trying to _kill_ him. And they weren't even watching.

" _Look at me_!" he shrieked, hardly recognizing his own voice, shrill with fear and desperation. "What did I ever do to you? Why are you _doing_ this?"

And they looked, looked down their noses as though he were—were a filthy District kid who'd slipped into one of their dinner parties and really should know better than to call attention to himself if he had to show up at all. "But we didn't choose you," Faustus, the head Gamemaker said, voice smooth. "Your District did. Ah, yes. I see. Good job with the plants. You've practiced quite hard."

"How can you _do_ this?" he screamed. "I never hurt anyone! I wasn't even _alive_ in the rebellion—my _parents_ weren't even alive! We never did anything to you, how can you— You're all murderers, all of you are just—just child-killers and _murderers!_ "

They shifted, not as though they were questioning themselves but as though they wanted to move away from something distasteful. "Well. If that's all, I think we can cut your session short," Faustus announced. "Need some help, do you?" He snapped his finger, and two servants came, replacing Dirk's crutches with their shoulders and bearing him easily from the room, ignoring him as his accusatory screams broke down into sobs.

—

Tanna slipped into the room and looked over the Gamemakers. They were all brown and yellow and bored—Dirk hadn't done much. She was sort of sorry for him, but he was so prickly and jagged it hurt to look at him, so mostly she stayed away. She knew he knew he was going to die—but she knew she was going to die, probably, and _she_ wasn't prickly and jagged. She wrinkled her nose a little at the big Gamemaker with the black spots like mold in the brown, and moved an unconscious step away from him, looking around. Koter, her trainer, said to show what she was good at, so she went to the plants station and quickly separated them into piles—one for nourishing, one for medicinal, one for safe but pointless, and the last for poison. Then she moved the medicinal ones that could _also_ be poison a little way towards the poison ones. That was easy. The little juts of purple showed they could be poisonous just like the overarching aura of yellow showed they could be medicinal. How much it took to be poisonous was showed by how much purple there was.

Task complete, she looked around and grinned as she saw an area full of traps. Dancing over to it, she passed through it twice, careful not to touch any of the fluorescent orange triggers. Then she stopped to look at one more closely, and, as she concentrated, a blue line squirmed up, looped around, and vanished, and she laughed aloud as she did what it showed and disarmed the trap. She went to do another one, but got called back because she was out of time, and so she skipped out the door, following a green ball that bounced and rolled in front of her but jumped to the side if she tried to catch it.

—

Posy reminded herself not to scowl at the Gamemakers, who were obviously bored and sick of this whole thing. She was last—she or Kenny were always last, and she supposed it was her turn, since mostly it was Kenny. And this year especially, chances were good nobody much made any impression at all except from the first few districts, so it sort of made sense that they were bored. But still! This was her fucking _life_ , and, if Paden was to be believed, the response she gained here could make a huge difference in the Arena. She still wasn't all that sure how much Paden _was_ to be believed, but, despite herself, she kind of liked him, and he did usually make sense. And he said she was _to_ make an impression and _not_ to scowl at the Gamemakers, and she was left to try to figure out how to manage either of those things—much less both of them.

She felt a hot ache start in the back of her eyes, not fear or sorrow but _anger_ , and she hated that anger made her cry, but it always had, and if she let it now, they would think she was afraid, and she _wasn't_. Furiously, she stalked three paces forward. "Well," she said, voice harsh, scowling despite Paden's orders. "Everyone give you a good show?"

They looked at her, startled, one of them pausing with food actually in her mouth but not biting down, a bit of sauce making its way down her fork.

"'Course, breaking a few practice dummies doesn't have much to do with actually fighting," she commented. "They didn't look them in the eyes and know it was another human being they have to kill." She grinned suddenly, fiercely. "Why don't one of you come on down, and we'll see how I do against a real person?" she offered, eyes narrowing ferally as the woman with the fork still in her mouth jumped as the sauce finally spilled onto her hand and put it down hurriedly. "I'll look you right in the eye," she promised. "And we'll see whether I can take a human life. Come on—what better test is there than that?" She stared at them, one after another, and they stared back, nobody moving, nobody speaking. And then, finally, she nodded. "Yeah, figured," she said. "Pity." And then she walked out.

"Well?" Paden asked, cornering her as soon as she got off the elevator before she entered the living room where Kenny and Torrie and the stylists were likely to be waiting.

She shrugged.

"Did you make an impression?" he asked.

"Maybe."

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, a hint of a smile suggesting that he thought maybe there was a story behind that. "Tell," he said.

"I told them they couldn't really judge any of our abilities to survive by facing off against practice dummies since it was obviously going to be different with real humans, and invited them to come down and see if I was up to killing a human," she answered, glaring at him. "Also, I scowled."

To her surprise, a delighted smile lit up his face, and he slapped one hand against his thigh. "Ah, honey, I love you a little bit some days," he told her. "A lot of kids talk at 'em instead of doing anything—begging or yelling mostly. But I never heard of anyone inviting them down. Well, I don't know as you'll get an eight or a nine, but you should have at least captured their attention a bit. And at the very least—do you feel a little better?"

Surprised, she shrugged, then admitted, "Yeah, a little."

"Good," he said. "Then it was worth it."

—

Precious fought back a frown at Quell's score of ten. He was, surely, the best they'd ever had before—she understood that nobody _ever_ got a twelve, though she'd honestly thought they might make an exception for him—but there had been several elevens over the years and surely if anyone had ever deserved one, it was Quell? She shot a sideways look at him, and found him serene and apparently content with the score. Their mentors looked far from content, but were at least approving of his acceptance. Then she turned her attention back to the screen at her own name, and her eyes widened as Fabius, the commentator, shrilled, "Eleven!"

Her jaw dropped. There was no way. She shot an anxious look around, and saw Mika looking at her through hooded eyes, and Tarn nodding slowly. "They're changing the way they judge," he commented. "Thinking less about skill and more about playacting. Pleasing the audience, appealing to sponsors as more than simply the best bet. Very well, we can use that, between her appeal and your skill—there won't be any shortage of sponsors. You two are going to have a good, clean game. It's a shame that you're facing even lower dregs than most, but the honor of success will be no less for that."

—

There were more ones than there had been in all the other twenty-four games altogether. Six of them. Of which, Jedric was one, along with both triutes from District 3, the armless boy from 7, and the crippled boys from 8 and 11. The blind girl from 8 pulled a three, apparently not just giving up and rolling over. If the Arena were just right—or just wrong—she might have a chance, after all, but the odds were definitely not in her favor. Jedric smiled just a little. He always found the focus on odds amusing—they had never been nor would ever be in any one individual's favor. Nobody who entered the Arena would ever have a better chance of survival than of death.

Tanna, who was either insane or a genius—or possibly both—pulled a seven, and he wondered just what she'd shown them that earned her that. Same for the rebel boy from 9, though he doubted that had anything to do with anything he'd done in the Arena. High enough to make him a threat but too low to make him an obvious choice for sponsors—about what he'd figured for that one. And the nutjob who was clearly targeting him, the boy from 6, got a nine that he suspected was just as rigged. There was no way he could have actually showed better skills than the boy from 4, obviously a career despite his slight build, who only got an eight. Of the other careers, the girl from 2 got a nine, the girl from 1 got an eleven, and the other three were all tens. So the career average of 9.7, which was a bit higher than usual—but not enough so to pull up the overall average past 5.1, which was by far the lowest of any of the games to date. Other than the ones, there were a pair of twos—the girls from 7 and 9, both mentally incompetent unless they were playing a game as deep as his own, and he didn't think they were—and three threes, the friendly giant girl from 3, 8-girl, and 12-boy. Nessa got a five along with 5-boy. 6-girl and 12-girl—the volunteer—sixes, and that was the lot of them, summed up with a score that was supposed to rate their chances of survival.

If he'd believed for an instant that there weren't cameras on him, he would have allowed himself a smile rather than staring blindly into space. Every now and then he found himself almost enjoying this. He knew even with his deception his chances were far from good. If he'd shown everything he knew they'd have _maybe_ given him a five or six. But he wasn't really interested in their odds, much less their scores. The only one of the lot of them he trusted to _actually_ deserve a one was the poor kid from Seven. No act would make it look like arms weren't there when they were. Every single one of the others could be a threat, and he intended to remember it.


	5. Chapter 5: Interviews

**Chapter Five: Interviews**

They sat in a line, all in formal evening wear, each waiting his turn. The costumes were less contrived than they had been for the parade, more like some sick senior prom—though they'd stuffed 9-boy in a dress again. Jedric had managed to spill food on his tux twice, had it cleaned each time, and then they hadn't let him have anything to eat or drink, including water. He'd still managed a bit of drool, which had been no mean task with the lack of water. To Jedric's right was Nessa. They'd done surgery to fix her mouth so she looked normal, but just fixing it couldn't make her talk clearly after years of living with it, so she was to use a voice synthesizer—she'd type and it would speak. So was he, since he was even more incomprehensible than she was. He was quite looking forward to it. On his left was Tanna, feet drawn up in her seat, arms around her knees, and sort of wilting in her seat, leaning towards him far enough that her shoulder was lightly brushing his arm. She often leaned when she was sitting, he'd noticed it before, but he was pretty sure this was deliberate. He ignored it. He kept his focus carefully divided between keeping himself looking absolutely dull and unengaged, the current interview, and the others' reaction to the interview. Not least of which was Tanna, who shuddered and looked away when 1-girl got called, swallowing like she was fighting being sick. Which was interesting, because she didn't seem _scared_ —just disturbed.

—

Precious swirled up onto the stage with a flurry of skirts, smiling and waving at the audience and then at Fabius, lowering her eyes as he kissed her hand, and then settling into her seat. "So, Precious—you received _the_ top score last night— I think we were all pretty excited at that! What was going through your head at that moment?"

She giggled and shrugged. "I just kept waiting for them to say they'd mis-spoken before and Quell actually got a twelve," she admitted wryly. "I never thought I'd get top score, never in a million years. But I worked really hard for it, and I hope to give everyone a show they never forget!"

He let the audience cheer for a minute, then settled them and smiled. "Now, we know your father was a tribute—and that sadly he didn't make it. Is there anything you'd like to say to him?"

She dropped her gaze, assuming an expression of sorrow. "I—I never knew him, of course," she said, talking just a little too fast, as though she were nervous, as though she hadn't practiced for this question. "But—but I'd want him to know that I'm going to fight to redeem his name. District 1's gonna win this game." She raked her gaze across the line of tributes, smiling when she saw the weirdo from 10 shudder back a little. "Our district's honor will be redeemed."

—

"So, are you satisfied with your score at the private trainings?"

Quell offered a thin smile. "If I were ever satisfied with my performance it would never improve," he said calmly. "And if you stop improving, there's no point in life. I don't believe I'll ever be satisfied, but I do believe I worked hard and achieved an honorable score. And you may believe absolutely that you'll be talking to me again. Because I'm going to win these Games."

"I understand that your parents were _both_ Victors, and were your and Precious's mentors throughout training. What was that like for you?"

"My parents have always been and will always be my mentors because I will always try to live up to their hopes and expectations. Nobody could ask for better. They're amazingly supportive and have every faith in me."

"And what a family tradition that would be! Let's hear it for District 1's Quell!"

—

"I think everyone who saw your Reaping was impressed by your drive," Fabius said with a grin, then paused and let the audience shout their approval. "But what were _you_ thinking, Merith?"

She laughed, throwing back her head enough to make her hair swirl about her shoulders, and nodded. "I was thinking that I _had_ to win, because otherwise all of you would be deprived of the best tribute you could have!" she said. "I worked hard to be here, and while I know Ina worked hard, too, I really think I'm a better choice, and that made it important for me to win those votes and get in here to meet all of you!"

—

Zander chuckled and shook his head. "Oh, there was never really any debate," he said. "I've been the best forever, and nobody else was going to pass me."

"Ah ha, and modest, too," Fabius chuckled.

"Oh, I can be modest when it's called for," he said with a grin. "My schoolwork's never been above average," he said sadly, looking through his lashes with obviously feigned humility. "And I could never look as good as half the ladies here," he added, grinning impartially out at the audience, meeting as many pairs of eyes as possible and then raising his fingers to his mouth and blowing a kiss at a young woman who shrieked in response and had to be held back from the stage by her friends.

—

The minutes of the twins interviews seemed to last for hours. They had to be pulled away from each other and each spent the whole time straining towards the other. They appeared completely unaware of any questions asked, though Fabius mentioned their Champion mother in hopes of gaining them some support. There were catcalls and requests to skip them, but the rules were firm and everyone had the same length of time, so it had to be waited through.

—

"Well, that's quite the act to follow," Bella said dryly, stepping onto the stage and shaking Fabius's hand once, firmly.

He laughed, and motioned her to the seat. "Oh, you're _funny_ ," he said. "Tell me, do you have any family at home?"

"On older brother and two younger sisters, as well as both my parents."

"Did they come to say goodbye after the reaping?"

She hesitated, remembering Dulcia clinging to her leg and begging her to change her mind, not to go, and Allie rolling her eyes and telling Dulcia not to be a baby 'cuz Bella was gonna beat _everyone_ and come back and it was going to be awesome, and Tide standing with his arms crossed, not looking at her like he hadn't really looked at her since she had really decided to go through with this. Her parents trying to be supportive but letting the worry show through as they served rare cake and ice cream after a meal loaded with actual meat, something she got at the center, but rarely at home. The way she'd catch her mother looking at her, and then she'd turn away hurriedly and not let anyone see her face for several seconds. The helplessness in her father's eyes. She dropped her eyes, shrugged, and told the truth. "No. I asked them not to. We said our goodbyes earlier."

—

Cork bounded onto the stage, waving wildly, grinning crazily, the blood pounding through him as though it were itself some new drug. He shook Fabius's hand eagerly, and reluctantly sank into the seat, foot jiggling with the need to be _doing_.

After the usual introductory questions, Fabius asked a new one. "When did you decide you _wanted_ to be in the Hunger Games?"

Cork laughed. "I don't remember ever _not_ wanting it."

"Really? Why?"

He laughed again, eyes scanning the audience, then grinned with inspiration, bounced up, and approached one of the only kids in the audience—the only one in the front row. The kid was probably about seven and was holding a toy sword as though it were the last piece of candy in the world, and watching the show from the edge of his seat, one of his mother's hands on his shoulder as a gentle restraint keeping him from getting on the stage himself. He dropped to a knee in front of him, and the kid's mouth opened in an "o". "Do you want to be a tribute when you grow up?" he asked.

"Yeah!" the kid breathed.

"How come?" he said.

"'Cause tributes are _awesome_ , an' I'd get to fight, an' I'd win and be a hero, an' nobody tells them when they have to go to bed or they have to eat carrots or not to pick their scabs or _nothing_!"

Cork nodded solemnly and ruffled his hair, then turned back to grin at Fabian. "There you have it! Couldn't have said it better myself," he said, bouncing back to his chair.

—

Isra grinned at Cork as he came back from the stage, then took her own turn, smiling so wide her face hurt when everyone looked at her and cheered. But that was okay—it was the good hurting.

"What's your favorite thing about the Capitol?" the funny-looking man who asked the questions said.

"I like the food!" she said happily. "The thing with the fruit and the bread. And everybody's always nice and there's lots of new games to play and new friends to play with."

"Wow," he said, as the audience cooed. "It sounds like you don't want to go home!"

She frowned and shook her head. "I miss my daddy," she said.

"What about your mother?" he asked.

Her frown deepened. "I don't really 'member her, but Daddy says she loves me more'n anything. Always. And I'm meeting her soon. Daddy said 'fore I got on the train I was coming to meet her, but I keep looking and looking and I can't find her. But I want to find her soon so I can go home to Daddy."

The man's face did something funny, and he sort of swallowed, and his voice sounded weird when he said, "I'm sure we all hope you can be together with your family again soon." And in the audience someone burst noisily into tears. And then she got to go back and sit back down next to Cork, who winked at her, and it was Terent's turn to go talk.

—

Terent swallowed heavily and offered Isra a weak smile as she settled herself and he got up to face the public. He reminded himself that it didn't matter, that nothing he did here was actually going to make any real difference. But he'd always hated public speaking, had gotten so sick he threw up when he had to recite a poem to his class, and now the 'class' was hundreds of people in the live audience and every single citizen of Panem on television. He swallowed again, looked right at Fabius and tried to pretend that there was nobody else there. Which wasn't all that helpful, given that Fabius kept talking to and encouraging the audience, but it was the best shot he had of not showing his breakfast to the world.

"You okay there, Terent, you look a little unsteady," Fabius said, tone concerned.

"I'm not really good at public speaking," he admitted.

"Aww, that's a shame! But everyone here's on your side, right everyone?"

He tried not to heave as a supportive roar made his stomach jerk unhappily.

"It didn't come through at the reaping at all, for what it's worth."

"I ... had other things on my mind, then," he said. "And I didn't have to say anything."

"Well, let's keep it simple. How are you feeling about the Games, Terent?"

He managed a strangled laugh. "Better than this—at least I won't _see_ everyone watching me."

The crowd roared with laughter, and he managed a few more strained answers before he was blessedly allowed off the stage.

—

Myra smiled lazily around the audience and raised a brow at Fabius.

"Do you have a strategy for the Games, Myra?"

Her smile widened a little. "I do, indeed."

"Care to share it with us?"

She laughed and shook her head. "You'll just have to wait and see. It wouldn't do to spoil the surprise, now would it?"

The crowd cheered, and Fabius laughed and moved on to a different line of questioning. "So do you have anyone back home you're especially eager to get back to? A boy, perhaps?" he suggested, raising one brow.

Myra's smile crystallized, her eyes hardening. "Oh," she said. "Not a boy, no."

—

Dug rolled his eyes at Myra's fucking mystery act, pretending like she had something to hide when the only real mystery was which one of them was going to get to kill her and how soon. He swaggered onto the stage before she was all the way off, and grinned at the audience, showing a lot of teeth.

"How about you, Dug, do you have a girl waiting for you at home?"

"Oh yeah," he said, grinning into the camera. "My baby Misty's waiting, all right. She and Myra're friends," he added, casting a grin at Myra, who was wearing that fucking mask again like she didn't care. "Probably be upset if I kill her—but, baby," he said, looking straight into the camera, talking straight at that cunt—she'd be watching, they all were, "Baby, I'll do whatever I have to in order to come back to you. You know that."

The audience awwwed, and his grin widened.

—

Becky placed each foot carefully as she moved onto the stage, certain she was going to trip and embarrass herself. Only she was embarrassed anyway, even though she didn't fall, and felt herself flushing bright red. She sat down, staring at her hands, and waited miserably.

"How are you liking the Capitol, Becky?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears running down her face.

"Is the food good?"

She shook her head, not opening her eyes.

"Really? You don't like any of the food at all?"

She shook her head harder, squeezing her hands so tight they hurt, and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold herself together when it felt like she was going to shatter into a million pieces.

—

Posy bit her lip as Rosin moved carefully out onto the stage and sat down after a solemn little bow to the audience. She'd been eating with him and Tillie and she _liked_ him, he was smart and funny and seemed absolutely calm about everything that was happening in a way she absolutely could not understand. He seemed so ... mature, rather than the youngest of all of them.

"I know a lot of people are worried about you, Rosin," Fabius said with that huge, fake smile of his, and a few voices from the audience called out agreement. "Is there anyone you're particularly worried about?"

Rosin smiled. "Of course. Tillie and Posy are really great, and I'm really worried about them. Isra, obviously, is possibly the sweetest, most innocent person I've ever met and I'm really worried about her, too. And Grant, of course, is having a particularly rough time of it. And I'm worried about the families of all of the Tributes, this is going to be really hard on them, and I hope they all stay strong through it."

Fabius looked dumbfounded. After a moment, he recovered. "Ah, actually I meant in terms of afraid _of_ more than afraid _for_."

"Oh," he said, with that little smile that meant he knew something you didn't. "Sorry. I misunderstood. In that case, no. I have a plan and am absolutely confident that nobody here is going to lay a hand on me." And the crazy thing was, Posy believed him, though she couldn't figure out what the heck he was thinking.

"You have confidence you'll win, then?" Fabius asked, sounding like he thought Rosin had lost his mind.

Rosin's smile widened just a hair. "I can't tell you any more," he apologized. "But I do have a plan."

—

Armscye slipped onto the stage and into her seat, waiting expectantly.

"So, from what we hear, you lost your sight last year in a factory accident, is that right?"

"Yes," she said, calmly.

"It's hard to believe! You seem to get around amazingly well without it."

"Thank you," she said. "I've worked very hard on it."

"How do you feel about your chances for the Games?"

Armscye shrugged her slim shoulders, and smiled. "Well, the odds are against me, obviously, but I don't think it's hopeless. There are some situations where my disability could be the advantage, so I'm largely waiting to find out what the Arena holds. I might surprise you yet."

—

After automatically raising one hand to guide Armscye into her seat, Ven shuffled onto the stage and collapsed into the chair.

"You and Armscye seem close," the announcer suggested.

He shrugged. "We weren't always, but after the accident we got thrown together a lot. We're friends, I guess, now."

"And are you feeling as optimistic about the Games as she is?"

"I think there are some Arenas where she could overthrow all the odds and come out on top," he said. "It just depends on the Arena."

"For yourself, though—"

"Oh," he said. "Yeah, no. I'm going to die. That's not really at issue."

—

Tillie tried not to cry like Becky as she took her place on the stage and glanced worriedly at the audience and then at the announcer with his silly silver hair sticking up in all directions. If he was one of the kids, she wouldn't let him out like that. His smile hardened a little and there were some laughs from the audience, and she realized that she'd spoken out loud again, and shrank back with a muttered apology. "I'm not used to the Capitol," she offered by way of excuse. "Everything's so—so bright and shiny and big, and I'm not used to it, is all."

"Of course," he said, voice a little chilly. "So—what do you miss the most about your home?"

She bit her lip, and her eyes slid away from him. A motion caught her eye, and she saw Rosin tilting his head to catch her attention. When he saw her looking, he smiled, warm and sweet, and she felt that big ache from her throat to her stomach again, but she felt better anyway. "The kids," she said. "Missy Penroe's kids. I take care of 'em, an' they're the sweetest things." She felt tears well up again, but fought them back. "Dex and Prater and Katrin—she's just a baby. Dex and Prater are twins—they're seven." She fought back a sob, and whispered, "I don't want them to watch."

—

Grant took his place, and gazed evenly out at the crowd, keeping his face still and firm, ignoring the questions he was asked. They could kill him, but they couldn't make him play along. He wouldn't pretend to be some celebrity for their amusement. Nothing he did was going to change the events in the Arena. It didn't matter if he got sponsors or if they sent gifts. There was no way he'd be allowed to survive to win.

He blinked and focused as a piping voice from the audience demanded, "How come you're wearing a dress?"

It was the little boy the guy from District 4 had questioned earlier, though his mother clamped a hand on his shoulder and snapped, "Caesar! Hush!"

Grant, however, decided to answer. He looked solemnly back at the boy and explained, "Because our nation is an oppressive tyranny ruled by a sadistic Capitol that enjoys as entertainment the torture and murder of children."

By the time the catcalls and hisses died down, his time was up and he was allowed to return to his seat.

—

Rubbing sweaty hands on her thighs, Nessa looked down at the little keyboard on her lap and then back at Fabius. They'd fixed her mouth. The one thing she'd prayed for every night for most of her life. The flaw that made everyone at school laugh at her, everyone not want to look at her, that made her a freak, an outcast. And they'd fixed it because the Capitol doesn't like to look at ugly things. All better. Only she still couldn't talk right. Maybe she would eventually, except there wasn't going to _be_ an eventually. Probably.

The Capitol. He'd asked if she was enjoying the Capitol, she reminded herself. Looking down at the keyboard, she pecked at it for a while, each word projecting in the air over the keyboard for a moment when it was recognized. The voice that spoke her words, though melodious, was hard to follow because of the pauses as she hunted for the right keys. "Very comfortable. The food's good."

"And the medical facilities, too, of course, which you got to experience first hand! What did you think of that?"

She shrugged, frowning, and gradually the words came out, "If I have to die for you, you should have to deal with looking at me ugly." Which took long enough that her time was up. She headed back to her seat, amused to realize that she was rather anticipating seeing what Jedric was going to do with his interview.

Started out with not much. He sat, staring into space, until the board was put into his hands. Then he picked it up and turned it over and stared at it. He poked a key randomly, and after a moment when it became apparent he wasn't going to touch another, the letter G was projected over the keyboard and a serious male voice, quite the contrast to the feminine contralto hers had had, intoned, "Gee." Jedric's face lit up, and he poked it again repeatedly. "Gee," it announced. "Gee, gee, aitch, bee."

He made his eyes big and round with discovery, staring very intently at the board, and then pushed three keys, one after the other. "Cat," the board said portentously.

Jedric howled with laughter, and Nessa tried hard to keep a straight face until she realized several of the other Tributes were laughing at him. Then she let her own smile show, and figured nobody would know she was laughing at them instead of him as he typed it again, and then again and again—though sometimes he spelled it wrong—until they escorted him back off the stage and the keyboard removed from his hands.

—

Tanna's dress looked a little like leaves, which was distracting because they kept growing and she tried to follow the branches with her eyes as they sprouted out and grew away from her like she was a tree, but they'd melt away if she looked straight at them, and another would squirm out and grow in another direction. She had to sort of watch out of the corner of her eye, pretending she wasn't looking at all.

"Tanna?"

Guiltily, she jerked her eyes up, focusing again on the interviewer. "Sorry," she said. "What?"

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

She laughed and put her arms up, laughing again, delightedly, as trunks unfurled from them and shot up, spreading into massive trees. "I'm a tree," she explained happily.

"I ... see," he said.

Sunlight dappled the stage through her leaves and the rustling of leaves in the wind was a soft, pleasant murmur, and she smiled happily and swayed with the breeze.

—

"So tell us a little about yourself, Dirk," Fabius encouraged.

He gave a little croaked laugh. "What's to tell?" he said. "I'm sixteen, I have four brothers and two sisters, I got hurt in an accident in Orchard Sixteen last year, but I still had a chance to live a good life, but now I'm getting murdered for your entertainment." He felt the all-too-familiar lump in his throat coming back, and fought against tears.

"I see," Fabius said, sounding like he was at a bit of a loss. Then he brightened. "So! Tell me about your brothers!"

Dirk stared at him. "That's what you took away from that?" he said. "You want to hear about my _family_? You're sending me out to _die_ and you want me to talk about my _brothers_? Are you fucking _nuts_?" Koter had said not to accuse, not to talk about it, to keep things level, not to get upset. But how was he supposed to not get _upset_ about his own _murder_?

"At least keep some fucking _dignity_ ," his mentor had snarled when they'd been discussing the interview.

He'd meant to. To try at least. He _had_ tried, even. But they were _killing_ him, and why the _fuck_ should he be _graceful_ about it for _them_? Now, he decided in a moment of utter clarity, was the time for him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. And what he wanted was to throw a tantrum that would put Riss, his three-year-old niece, to absolute shame. So he did.

—

"Now, on to the question that many of us have been waiting for—I know _I_ have! We all know you volunteered to avoid, erm, unwanted attentions, but we want to know the whole story! Whose attentions were you avoiding?"

She shrugged. "Rav Kotter."

"And were you facing an arranged marriage with this Rav?"

She stared at him for a long moment in disbelief, then snorted. "No. We don't really do arranged marriages in 12."

"Ah," he murmured. "And when did you start planning to volunteer?"

"At the last change in favorites," she said, which was mostly true since Kitty had sworn she'd do something that would make Posy regret it if she got chosen and Posy volunteered for her. She hadn't been explicit, but Posy had believed her. There'd been something in her eyes, something wild and desperate was impossible _not_ to believe. So she'd promised not to and probably would have kept the promise.

"Why, then?" he asked. "What did ... Rebby Hawthorne, I believe it was, have to do with it?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then why—"

A frustrated sigh made them both look over at the child in the front row, whose mother was trying to hush him and looking embarrassed.

Fabius seemed inclined to be amused at it. "Well? You have some insight, young sir?"

The kid didn't have to be asked twice. "It wasn't about _that_ one, it was why it _stopped_ being the _other_ one, right?" he said in a piping voice, continuing without waiting for an answer. "She was your sister, right? Kitty, I mean. Your mother loves her better, right? What did she do 'bout it?"

Posy felt like she'd been slapped across the face, and lost control of her expression for just an instant before recovering. Fabius looked just as startled—and chagrinned at not having put together the same pieces. She opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say—then grinned. " _And_ we're out of time. I'll answer if I make it to the closing interview."

Ignoring the shouts and howls of complaint, she practically skipped off the stage and back to her own seat.

—

Kenny rocked back and forth, clutching his elbows.

"What do you think of the Capitol?" Fabius asked, speaking a little slowly.

"Pretty," he said. "But I wanna go home. My mamma needs me."

"Do you have any siblings?"

He nodded several times. "But Kaden an' Yora're married an' out'a the house, and mamma don't have nobody takin' care of her like I did. An' I wanna go home," he finished with a bit of a keen.

"Then you'll have to work really hard to win so you can go home to her, right?" Fabius asked.

Kenny snuffled, trying to clear his clogged nose, and shook his head miserably. "Killin' folks's wrong," he said. "Mamma said so."

"Did she tell you not to when she said goodbye to you?"

He shook his head miserably. "Didn't say nothin' then. Jest cried," he said. " _Always_ said so 'fore then," he said stubbornly. "S'wrong. She wouldn't like it if I killed nobody."

"I'm sure she'd understand it's different for the Hunger Games," the man cajoled.

He rocked a little harder. "Sometimes rules got 'ceptions," he said, repeating from memory from teachers and his mamma and everybody saying it. "But some rules don't. An' killin' people's wrong."

—

Paul raised a brow as Rosin and Becky trooped obediently back to their floor, but it was Faye who said, "Plan, huh, Rosin? What've you got?"

He smiled at both mentors, and shrugged. "I'd like it to be a surprise."

"We can help you polish it," Paul said. "If you've got any chance, we'd be glad to—"

"No thank you," he said. "I have it fully under control. You can just sit back and relax, unless you can do anything for Becky," he added, cocking a concerned brow at his District mate, who still had tears on her face and was still breathing in jerky little gasps. He moved a little closer to her and leaning against her slightly, and felt her jerk and then calm a little.

"No," Faye said sadly, not quite looking at either of them. "No, there's really not."

Rosin sighed. "Well. I'm going to get an early night. Big day tomorrow, after all."

"Yeah," Paul said with a sigh, slumping into his seat. "Big day tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6: Cornucopia

**Chapter Six: Cornucopia**

Armscye sat quietly and focused on everyone around her. She could smell their fear as the door closed and they were each in their seat on the little craft, packed close together. "Arm," an impersonal female voice said, and she held it out obediently, feeling a sort of pinch as they gave her some sort of injection.

"What is it?" Ven asked, beside her.

"Tracker," the voice answered succinctly, moving on to the next person, stating again, "Arm."

She leaned a little sideways, letting her shoulder touch Ven's and heard him blow out a slow, controlled breath. "Hanging in?" she murmured.

"Yeah," he said, his tone testifying that it was true, if barely. "You?"

She nodded. They lapsed into a silence broken only by whimpers from down the row and the repeated command of, "Arm."

"How come his is different?" the girl from Eleven asked, suddenly.

"It isn't," the voice said, a little less impersonal, the words a lie, and Armscye stiffened turning that way, trying to figure out what happening. "All of the tracker injections are identical."

"Okay," the girl said patiently. "Then give that one to _him_ , and give Grant the next one. If they're identical it doesn't matter."

"No fucking _way_ ," the boy from Six snarled. "I'll take my own."

" _Since_ they're identical, there would be no point in doing so," the voice replied, a hair higher than it had been before and speaking a touch more quickly. "Arm, Mr. Patters."

Ah. The rebel. They were doing something to ensure his loss, then.

"That one's _different_!" the girl insisted. "It's bad. Give him a different one!"

"All of the injections are identical, and there is no reason to change the order!" the voice snapped back.

"If they're the same, trade it. I'll take his," another voice, with just an edge of dissonance, a shade too loud, said—the girl from Nine.

"Switch it with one of the others!" Eleven-girl said again.

"Tanna, stop," the rebel's voice was calm with an current of despair beneath it. "Enough, it's fine. It's fine."

"It's not fine, that one's _bad_!" she said. "It's got orange and brown spikes and none of the rest of them do!"

"Arm," the voice snapped, sounding satisfied, clearly having injected the bad tracker into him. Then a soft thump, a little gasp of pain, and a startled, "You kicked me!"

"Yeah, and? Come back over here and I will again. You're bad. Sending us all in—that's bad enough. But cheating is even worse and I don't want you touching me. Send someone else to give me mine."

There were footsteps, a low-voiced argument, and a man's voice took over, snapping, impatiently, " _Arm_." And so it continued.

—

Rosin took a deep breath, blew it out, repeated. He looked at each of the others as they disembarked, finally going himself, meeting Nona, his stylist. She had tears in her eyes and was wearing less makeup than usual, and her voice shook as she murmured, "There now, slide this on—keep your head up, there, now it's falling perfectly. You look wonderful."

"Thank you," he said.

She gulped, opened her mouth to speak, and released a sob.

He offered her a little smile and nudged her a little with his shoulder. "It's okay," he said.

"Now you've made it drape wrong!" She fussed with the jacket for a minute, breathing too softly and shallowly, and then engulfed him in a hug—which necessitated fixing the jacket _again_. Finally, she stepped back and gestured him to the glass cylinder. "Goodbye," she whispered, her voice cracking.

He nodded solemnly, and stepped onto the platform, feeling his heart racing but keeping his breath steady and his posture erect. A minute later, the glass closed around it and it rose up into the air, providing the first view of the Arena.

The timer in the sky glowed huge and red—60… 59… 58… They were in a forest clearing and a storm raged around them—around them, but not _around_ them. The clearing was some sort of eye, and the air was almost unnaturally still around the twenty-four pedestals and the huge cornucopia, but starting probably twenty yards past the pedestals in every direction, the wind howled, driving heavy rain so hard it he could barely see the first few trees. He saw everyone glance around, heard Ven shout "Forest. Natural light. Heavy storm," and Armscye's answering, "Thanks," her tone defeated. Not only light, but noise, taking away the advantage of her sharp hearing. 37… 36… 35…

The Careers, mostly opposite him, were glancing at each other, their relative positions, and the goods nearby, doubtless looking for which weapon they would be safe in reaching before anyone reached them. The other kids were looking around more randomly, panicked gazes looking for something that would help them, some hope, except the ones who were in their own worlds. The Threes had their eyes locked on the clock, their bodies tilted slightly towards each other. He'd heard they hadn't so much been taught not to move when during the countdown as conditioned—a similar clock was shown to them and they were shocked if they moved before it reached 0. Tanna had a little smile on her face, staring around in a kind of wonder until her eyes landed on the girl from Two and the smile faded and she looked faintly ill. He glanced beside her, and saw Posy's eyes on him. He smiled at her, and she looked away, biting her lip. 17… 16… 15.

His turn. His time. He'd planned this for weeks, from as soon as he'd come to terms with the knowledge that it was going to be him. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He looked up at the camera he knew was a little above and in front of him, and smiled and it was okay, it really was. He'd been worried he'd be afraid, but now that the time was here he just felt relieved. "If I could, I'd blow you a kiss," he told the camera and everyone watching. 4… 3… 2… When the clock hit 1, he stepped sideways off the pedestal, feeling the slight give—and then a moment of blinding light, deafening noise, excruciating pain—and nothing.

—

Armscye closed her useless eyes and focused on Ven counting down beside her—Isra two pedestals to the other side was counting out loud, too, her voice joyful and excited as it so often was. And then at five, Rosin, immediately to her right, said, "If I could, I'd blow you a kiss." Which gave her just enough warning to drop down and push her hands over her ears—a completely inadequate response to the explosion that followed the comment, the force of it pummeling her, the noise deafening. She struggled to her feet, disoriented, panicking, and tried to figure out which way was which, where she could go.

A hand touched her shoulder, more familiar than her own, and she relaxed a little, though she couldn't hear. Another hand joined the first, and they turned her and gave her a gentle shove. Towards the woods, she was sure. Towards the barest thread of a chance of survival. She took a deep breath, stumbled two steps forward, and stopped. She couldn't see. It wasn't a cave or a permanent night or—or anything where her disadvantage would become an advantage. And even if it was, she couldn't _hear_. The hands touched her shoulder again, pushing, and she reached up with her own, grabbed them, and turned around, holding the two unresisting hands together for a moment. Then she stepped forward, and wrapped her arms around Ven, putting her head on his shoulder.

"I can't hear," she said, her voice weird and atonal, bouncing around her head, and she wasn't sure if she was whispering or shouting. "I can't hear and I can't see, and I'm not as brave as I thought I was. Not brave enough to fight this."

He pushed her, frantically, trying to make her turn, make her go, but she held on, and finally the pushing stopped and he wrapped his arms around her, tight enough to hurt, and she could feel the wet heat of tears on her face and knew they weren't her own.

His arms tightened even harder, suddenly, and she stiffened in response, feeling a hotter, wetter heat, and then a cold sharp pain in her throat. But she held on anyway, and it didn't last long.

—

Isra stood veeeery still, just the way they'd taught her, as the numbers in the sky counted down. Terent was to her left, and her new friend Cork was to her right, and she always liked countdowns, because at the end something exciting happened—like fireworks! She counted with them, then jumped and nearly fell at the deafening boom away to her left, and jerked around, startled, to see fire and smoke and bits of—of stuff falling. Burnt black. She stared, trying to figure out what happened. It wasn't fireworks. It wasn't pretty enough or high enough, but the bang was right, and—

"Isra!"

Explosion forgotten, she grinned and turned to Cork, who was facing one of the girls who was good at everything, both of them holding knives. It was dangerous, running with knives like that, but a lot of the new games were dangerous. She grinned, and bounded over to play, pouncing on Cork and pinning him just like he'd showed her.

"No!" he howled, struggling. "Not me—her!"

Isra blinked, surprised at how angry he sounded—Cork never sounded angry. And then she screamed and jerked back as blood exploded into her face and Cork stopped yelling, and the other girl, tall and pretty, was looking at her with the knife out, and Cork was limp and his eyes were blank and funny-looking, and Isra picked up a rock and threw it at the girl who was moving towards her, and the girl swore and jerked back.

"Fuck it—I'll be back for you," the girl said. "No rush." And then she turned and went away, and Isra screamed and cried and tried to wake Cork up—only he wouldn't wake up, and she got painted red as she tried, and finally she sat down and sobbed for her Daddy, lashing out at anyone who came close, but otherwise just sitting and rocking and crying. "I don't want to play anymore," she whimpered. "I want to go home." But nobody came to get her, and she just cried harder.

—

Quell scooped up a sword and kept running, feeling Precious a pace behind him and to his left. He had been mildly pleased at Seven-boy's decision to opt out of the games. There would have been no honor in killing him. Of course, there was hardly any more here, he decided, as he saw the girls of Eleven and Twelve vanishing into the woods as fast as they could run, though in different directions, Twelve-boy lumbering after, Eleven-boy still huddled on his pedestal, sobbing into his arms. The Twos and Fours were on the other side of the Cornucopia, though he had some of his attention locked on them, ready to defend himself in earnest should they come this way. But, like himself and Precious, they were likely to go after the easy kills first. He went after Twelve-boy, easily catchable—Eleven would still be there after.

One swift stroke to the back of his leg brought the other boy down, screaming in pain, and Quell moved forward quickly to finish it with an end blow. He didn't immediately feel the searing pain, and at first he didn't understand it. It was in his left side. The side Precious was guarding. And the other Careers were nowhere near, and— He turned, and found her looking at him, tension around her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But we're still going to win. I swear it."

He looked down, finally, and saw the hilt of her longest knife jutting out just below his rib cage. He looked back at her, too shocked to be scared or hurt or anything else. He caught her shirt in his hand as he staggered, pulling her down with him as he fell, pulled her face right up to his. "You fucking better win," he snarled. "For District One," he muttered, as her face faded, leaving just blue smears of her eyes in a fuzzy circle of pale. "For the Capitol. You fucking win." He didn't hear her repeated promise, didn't hear anything as those last smudges of light and color faded.

—

Tanna stopped running just inside the cover of the woods, with the storm raging around her, lay down, and slipped under some thick, heavy shrubby things that hadn't been listed as edible, medicinal, or poisonous in the lessons. It cut out most of the wind and rain, though she was chilled and soaked from her few seconds in the brunt of the storm, and she slipped deep into the bushes and then found an angle that let her see the clearing she'd come from. The boy from Twelve was running this way, the pair from One after him, and she watched, fascinated, as the horrible competing colors flared brighter and brighter in the girl from One, roiling and spinning and making Tanna heave as she tried to tear her eyes away—and couldn't as the boy from One sliced with his sword and the boy from Twelve fell, screaming, and the colors flared brighter and fiercer than ever in the girl from One—and then suddenly the hot pink wiped out everything else, and she stabbed the boy from her district between the ribs, and the colors soothed as she finally stopped fighting with herself. Tanna breathed a sigh of relief as the girl killed both boys at her feet and then went back to where Dirk was crying on his pedestal, then bit her lip as she realized it was probably bad to feel grateful when everyone was _dying_ , but—but she was still really glad those horrible, churning colors were gone.

She curled up, moving her back close to one of the main trunks of the mash of growth she was in, and waited to see what happened next.

—

Terent lost a couple precious seconds to shock at the explosion, but he bit his lip and ran towards the Cornucopia, desperate to get _something_ useful before heading into the storm. Surely the Careers would be too busy getting their own loot and watching out for each other to bother him? He couldn't run into that howling storm with _nothing_ , and there was a pack midway between him and the giant horn. His breath caught a little as he saw how far ahead of him, how much closer to the loot the Fours were, but he didn't have to go all the way there, just to that pack. He picked it up as Cork scooped up two daggers, turned as Bella grabbed a spear, and ran diagonally away from them towards the woods. He risked a glance over his shoulder and breathed a bit more easily as he saw the girl from Two appear around the edge of the Cornucopia, her and the two Fours eyeing each other, and focused again on just getting gone.

He flinched as he heard Cork shout Isra's name, and her joyful answer, and turned back again, eyes widening in horror as he saw the spear that had just left the girl from Two's hand and was flying straight at him. It caught him below the ribs, almost missing altogether as the twist of his looking back _almost_ got him out of its path. The force sent him to his knees and he stared down at the point jutting out of his side with horror and started to shake.

"Sorry," the girl commented as she approached him, walking more.

He looked up at her, her wide, plain face filling his view weirdly, white and misty around the edges.

"If you hadn't moved, it would have been fast," she said, putting one foot on his foot, grabbing the spear in one hand, and pulling.

He screamed in agony as the pain finally hit with that wrenching pull, and barely saw her pull her arm back to thrust again.

He didn't feel her pull it out the second time.

—

Grant had seen the hilt sticking out of the ground, half hidden by a weed, within seconds of the tube raising, and knew that's what he was going to go for. When the countdown ran out, he ignored the explosion, raced forward, grabbed it, and pulled, finding it to be something between a short sword and a long dagger. He scooped up a poncho that was on the ground nearby, and turned back towards the woods—ran then paused as he saw Tillie kneeling on the blackened earth where the poor kid with no arms had blow himself up. He moved to her, grabbed her shoulder, and pulled. "Come on," he said. "They're gonna kill you if you stay here!"

She didn't even seem to hear him, shaking him off and staring at the ground as though trying to find some recognizable sign of the boy she'd fed every day at lunch.

"Come _on_ ," he said, a little frantically, trying to drag her to her feet.

But she was bigger than him, and if she decided she wasn't moving, he couldn't move her, and she seemed to have decided just that. He glanced around, saw Dug wipe blood off the head of his huge hammer on the girl from Seven's shirt, glance around, and grin as he saw them, and tried again to rouse her.

"Tillie, _please_ —" he said.

Finally she looked up. "You better run," she said, her voice hoarse and terrible.

He glanced around again, at Dug getting closer, at the girl from One looking measuringly about, picking out her next target, at the boy from Two appearing around the other side of the Cornucopia laughing and shouting, "Both twins with one fucking _thrust_ , I am _good_!"—and he ran

—

Posy wasted three seconds staring blankly at the blackened hole where Rosin had been after the count ended. Then she turned and fled into the forest, the tears on her cheeks lost instantly to the pouring, driving rain, any audible sounds disguised by the howling wind that hit her like a blow to the face as she left the strangely still clearing and threw herself into the forest and the storm that raged through it. She didn't look back, didn't twist to see anything behind her. Paden had told her that. He said if she was running to just _run_ —looking back would slow her down and wouldn't gain her anything. If someone was going to catch up, looking over her shoulder wouldn't stop him. So she just ran, focusing on where her feet landed on the soft, wet ground, on not getting hit in the face by the wind-lashed branches. On picking something as far away as she could see through the heavy rain and run towards it because it was all too easy to start bending around and running in circles, Paden said.

She tried to think of what she had to do. Water, which she'd focused so hard on learning to find, wasn't going to be a problem. That was maybe a relief. Paden had shown her a desert Games—the twelfth—that had ended with five kids too weak from thirst to even hunt each other. The one who lasted the longest (he'd dug into the ground so he was buried, protected from the sun) survived. She wouldn't have to face that. But she'd still need food. And she needed some sort of protection or shelter or cold and wet would sap her strength in no time, or even make her sick. It wasn't like she could light a fire. Even if the wood wasn't all wet, even if she had something to start it with, the smoke would draw hunters like flies to flesh.

After several minutes of fleeing headlong between trees, when she was breathing hard and her legs hurt and she was sliding badly enough that she almost fell several times, Posy slowed, paused, and focused on catching her breath. Finally glancing back, she cringed. The soft mud showed deep footprints filling with water. The storm would probably wash them out before too long, but someone could follow them if they started any time soon. She took a breath, released it, looked around, calming a little with one thing to focus on. Get away from this spot without leaving much trail. Okay. There had to be a way to do that.

She saw a fallen tree fifty feet back, took a breath, and took a few steps forward, deliberately heavy, to a place where it was a little dryer, where the tracks were harder to see, and then started walking backwards in her own prints till she was back at the tree, jumped onto a large protruding root between her and it, clambered up onto the tree without touching the ground, and moved cautiously along it, crawling rather than walking, dispersing her weight, trying not to damage the crumbling wood. At the other end, she paused, looked around, and saw a little brook, probably just a lower spot of ground when there wasn't an insane storm going on, several feet away. If she followed that for a while, she should be able to find some other way to mask her trail, and even if not at least there wouldn't be an unbroken line of footsteps from the Cornucopia to her.

She jumped up, grabbed a branch, and moved hand over hand, panting with effort, until she could drop into the brook, kicked the bottom a bit so the deep imprints where she landed where hidden, and moved upstream, since that took her farther away from the Cornucopia, eyes peeled for some other way to move, hands absently rubbing at her arms against the chill of the rain.

—

Jedric jumped as the shockwave hit him at the end of the countdown, silently thanked Seven-boy for the distraction, gave a faux-startled shout, and ran headlong straight away from the explosion into the woods. The wind and rain struck him simultaneously as he broke into the trees, and he ran for another thirty seconds until he was certain he was out of sight of the clearing, then slowed a little, though he continued to move deliberately heavily, eyes narrowed as he looked around. He couldn't make it too obvious that he was hiding his trail, but he had to get some space between him and the Careers and not leave too clear a trail for them to follow. He wasn't going to stand much chance if they caught up before he was well hidden. So, how to hide his trail without being obvious about it…

He slowed to a deliberately limping walk and then evened it out, walking more softly, sinking less into the soft mud. He kept his direction deliberately random, edging one way and then another, mostly downwind, counterclockwise around the Cornucopia, as though pushed by the storm, stopping frequently, reversing sometimes, turning sharp corners, as though he were lost and randomly trying to work out where to go. In doing so, he walked over every patch of stone, every thick bed of tree roots, every pile of leaves thick enough not to crumble like the mud, he could find, looking back periodically to see how well it was working. Quite well, as it happened. A good tracker could find him, but most Careers weren't that good at tracking, they were just good at killing.

Next step—he had to find some sort of shelter. At least a solid wind break. The rain was practically horizontal, so that would block the rain as well. Something to eat would be a nice addition, but right now shelter was more urgent. He was long since soaked to the skin and was getting more and more cold.

—

"Out of season fucking hurricane," Myra muttered for the thousandth time since their pedestals rose into the clearing and she saw the storm raging around its tiny eye. She'd spotted a sheet of clear plastic not far from her while she was waiting on the timer, and that was all she'd stopped for once the timer ran out, scooping it up and running like hell while the Careers (and her idiot district mate) were distracted by the easy kills and each other.

She'd torn a hole in the middle of the sheet while she was running, jerked it over her head, and shoved it down around the rest of her body instants before hitting the storm, the eye ending even more abruptly than a natural one. When she had time she'd fashion a hood out of part of it, but there wasn't time for that now. Once she was sure she was out of sight, she'd paused, knotting the plastic in several places so it clung close rather than dancing in the wind, and then moved on more slowly, fighting the wind and angling into it. She'd watched her tracks, minimized them for a couple dozen feet, which felt a lot longer in the storm, and then scrambled up a tree big enough to bear her and give her some protection from the storm, but young enough that she was fairly sure the roots were strong and it wouldn't collapse in a particularly strong gust. She didn't want to get too far from everyone else. She figured she had a better chance getting food from one of the ones who looted the Cornucopia than she did finding it on her own. Since then, she'd been curled up not too high in a fork of the tree, but mostly hidden from the ground, working the plastic more carefully around her and ripping off strips of her shirt at the bottom to tie it into place. Flapping in the wind would give her away, but at least it was keeping her dry and she wasn't too cold.

—

Tanna watched as the girls from One and Four and both the Twos and the boy from Six postured and edged towards and away from each other in a dance that was almost funny except for all the blood that was soaking into the ground, each spot someone had died blazing like a fire. Isra was still sitting and rocking in the clearing, throwing stones at anyone who got too close, and they left her alone. Her bright joyful yellow had darkened and muddied to an ugly brown, and it made Tanna want to cry to look at her. So she didn't. She watched the others as they danced around each other, none of them wanting to risk too bad a fight this early on, so they edged forward and back and snagged provisions without taking their eyes off the others, and gradually they slunk away a bit, but kept watching each other to make sure nobody took advantage of the Cornucopia going unwatched. The light started to fade, though the storm had made it fairly dark from the start, and it became clear they were settling in, for now at least.

Tanna wriggled out of her bushes, wrinkled her nose up at the rain, saw a sad, sparkly, silver glow away and upwind, and a warm, brown smudge further away and _further_ upwind—and started for the sparkle. Grant may as well go to the dry spot, after all. He was _almost_ on the way.


	7. Chapter 7: First Night

**Chapter Seven: First Night**

The storm raged around Nessa as she huddled in the bushes, eyes squinting against the driving rain. She was shivering, cold and wet, but she'd been cold and wet before. Just usually not alone. Usually there were cows or goats and she could edge into the herd and share their warmth. They didn't make fun of her like the other kids did, didn't look past her without focusing like the adults, so she'd always volunteered with the outer herds even in winter. She wouldn't mind a cow with her now. Even one not in milk would be warm and comforting and solid and would block the wind and part of the rain and share its heat without complaint. But she'd been cold and wet before and knew that wasn't going to kill her. It wouldn't have time. The Games weren't going to last long enough for that, not this time. Not with so many already dead. And if it wasn't going to kill her, she couldn't afford to pay it much attention.

Instead, her attention was focused on the Careers in the dry clearing, the edge of it only a few yards from her cover. They'd take the good stuff, but they'd leave something behind. She'd watched the games every year of her life, just like everyone else, and she knew how Careers worked. They'd kill everyone stupid enough to hang around, pick over the Cornucopia like wild animals at a carcass, growling and snapping at each other, but not actually biting, not unless they were stupid. And then they'd head out to hunt down the others—maybe each other, too. That part was iffy. It had to do with whether they were any good at sneaking, because nobody who wasn't would waste time on another Career early in the game. You didn't want a fair fight early on. Might get hurt. So they'd get the best stuff, and then they'd leave, heading out into the storm to hunt for the others. But they couldn't take everything.

She wasn't the first one with that thought. She knew that. She'd watched other kids in the videos, watched them wait and then sneak out to go through the leftovers when the Careers moved away. They'd seen it, too. If she'd seen all the Games she'd been alive for, they'd seen all twenty-four, and multiple times each. They'd know somebody might try it, and one of them might wait for a while. But they couldn't afford to wait long. They had to go make the sponsors love them, and hanging around at home base waiting wasn't going to get that. No, they had to go on the offensive. She just had to give them long enough.

They took their time, picking through the pile without ever taking their eyes off each other, pulling on raincoats and ponchos, filling packs, picking up and trading off weapons. The girl from One found a bow and cut its string before tossing it aside. She hadn't demonstrated any skill with the bow in training. The boy had, but she hadn't, so Nessa guessed it made sense not to leave it for anyone else. They took their time, with poor Isra howling and sobbing all the while, her cries audible even over the howl of the wind, but finally they left.

The first to leave was the monster from Six. Nessa hated him like she didn't any of the others. He didn't even have the excuse of being trained for it, he was just naturally vile—and she knew if she had to die, she wanted anyone other than him to kill her. Even the girl from Four, who she was pretty sure wouldn't make it quick or easy, would be better than what he'd do. But he left first, leaving the clearing in the direction Grant had gone into the woods, a ways off to her right. No surprise there. He was the least trained, the one with the worst chance if someone _did_ start a real fight early, and he'd shown early on his goal was the rebel. The sponsors wouldn't like it if he looked like he were backing out on that.

Bella—Nessa remembered her name because it meant pretty, and she knew how she'd have felt growing up if she'd been named pretty, and figured it hadn't been much nicer for Bella—moved towards Isra, who was still sobbing noisily by Cork's body—then swore and jumped back when a stone hit her in the knee and Isra screamed at her. She snarled at the girl and backed off, going the other way, up where the girl from Twelve had entered the storm. Bouquet or Flower or whatever her name was. The volunteer. Nessa squinted hard through the rain and _almost_ thought the other girl was limping just a little. If so, it made sense she'd take off fast and in the direction farthest from where everyone else had gone—Careers were like wolves, and if they saw a weakness they saw prey.

Which was probably why boy from Two had a little bounce in his step as he started off in the same direction once she was out of sight.

The girls from Districts One and Two eyed each other for a while, glanced at the Cornucopia a few times, then paced around the clearing on opposite sides from each other, stopping to look closely at each place anyone had left, and finally stopped where they met barely twenty feet in front of Nessa. "The girl from Six is the one most likely to come back early," the girl from Two said conversationally, just loudly enough that Nessa could make out the words if she strained. "She obviously fancied herself subtle."

The girl from One, the one who killed her district-mate even though it looked like she was fighting beside him (unlike Bella, who had killed hers gleefully but unsurprisingly), nodded agreement. "I'm not in the mood to wait around, and I don't think she'll find anything Game-changing if she does go through the Cornucopia," she said. "And she hid her track from the first step apparently—I can't see where she went into the woods, even, not clearly enough to be sure. You?"

"No," Two agreed. "So—which one do you want, then? No point going the same way from the beginning."

One eyed her, obviously trying to tell if she was trying to make some kind of trap.

Two shrugged. "It's going to be a miserable Games," she said, waving one hand to the sheets of rain they were standing just out of. "Whoever wins will get out faster if we're not all hunting the same one."

For a long moment, One just looked at her measuringly—then she shrugged. "Okay. I'll take Crazy-girl. Doesn't look like she even _tried_ to hide her trail."

"Good enough. Then I'll take this one," Two said, waving at Nessa, who almost screamed, biting her hand to stop it, shrinking into the mud, trying to be invisible. "Deaf-boy didn't try either, and I may as well start off with something easy. See you later, if the odds allow it!" And she walked by so closely that Nessa could (if she wanted it over quickly) have reached out and grabbed her ankle. But she didn't turn, didn't thrust that spear, still dark with the babysitter's blood, through her, just kept walking, following the deep tracks of Jedric's supposedly panicked run, now full of water but still clear. Nessa wished she could warn him, but figured when it came down to it nobody was going to be all that surprised if a Career showed up behind them.

The girl from One went off after where the crazy girl had left, relatively recently, and Nessa wondered if she'd have any chance at all. She saw more than she should, saw through Jedric without even trying, but Nessa still remembered watching her with a sling, how she'd made herself dizzy watching the spin. Not her problem, she reminded herself. But it didn't hurt to speculate, since she had no intention of breaking cover. Not yet. Any of them might be faking, waiting for someone to slip out of hiding. One of the Careers or even the girl from Six, like they were saying. And while the Careers were the most dangerous, Nessa had no intention of assuming that anyone else was safe.

So she waited, shivering in the mud, moving her limbs one at a time carefully, quietly, just enough to keep them from stiffening up, listening to Isra's sobs and moans, and the equally miserable sounds of the storm, eyes peeled for any motion other than the whipping trees and driving rain. Waited when the hovercraft came, grabbing the bodies of the first ones dead—and finally Isra moved, lumbering for it, screaming that she wanted to go home, wanted her daddy, but some kind of ray shot out and she froze in place mid-step until they were done collecting the bodies and it flew away and the canon went off twelve times. Isra collapsed back down, sobbing like her heart was breaking—and Nessa waited some more. She drifted into a half sleep a couple times—and the third time she jerked awake she decided she'd given it as long as she could afford to. She rose and slipped into the clearing, the sudden stillness and lack of rain a shock to the senses. And nobody rushed out to kill her. Staying carefully far enough from Isra not to upset her further, she approached the Cornucopia.

Soon she had stripped off her wet rags and pulled on warm, dry clothes, topped them with a poncho, tucked a couple knives into her belt, draped a sling loosely around her neck and filled her pockets with shot for it, filled a backpack with food and a flask of water, and started looking at what else she might use. She had a lot to do. She couldn't win just by hiding. Not unless some disaster hit and _everyone_ else died, and that almost never happened. Whoever won had to kill at least one other person, and usually the last person would be a Career and Nessa couldn't kill any of them. Not by fighting them anyway. But they always came back to the Cornucopia. Always. Because they knew that's where they'd find the end game. Eventually, when they got hungry enough, everyone came back. And this time, she was going to make sure they came back to some surprises. She'd spent, after that first day, more time at the traps and snares station than she had even on the sling, and she had no intention of letting her new knowledge go to waste. Slipping back into the storm, barely feeling it this time with her new gear, Nessa started laying traps.

—

Myra snarled in frustration as Dug left the clearing first. She'd been hoping he'd hold out longer. If he were last, she could go through the cornucopia before he could get too far, and still have some hope of keeping up, but there was no saying how long the others would take. It wasn't surprising, though, and she was used to Dug pissing her off, so she settled for slipping down from her tree and following far enough behind that he wouldn't see her. He did look back a few times—not for her, she thought, but to see if any of the others thought he'd be better prey than fellow-predator. He didn't see her, though. She was good at hiding and he was easy enough to follow that she didn't have to stay close. He was big, heavy, and he sank into the mud leaving big footprints that filled with water. The rebel's trail was far subtler, he'd obviously been making an effort to hide it, and she rolled her eyes when the two diverged, keeping to Dug's as it got more and more random and uncertain.

—

Tanna danced with the wind. It was a good partner, even though it stung her with whipping branches when she got the steps wrong. It was beautiful, purple and blue and green and red and it swirled and jumped and she twirled and leaped with it, laughing with pleasure as it played with her. She couldn't hear over its song, but she didn't have to, not when it told her everything she needed to know, waltzing with her towards the beacon of Grant's silvery glitter.

She stifled a giggle as she slipped past the greasy shine of the bad man, and the sharp purple spikiness of the girl following him. The girl saw her—but simply rolled her eyes and held a finger to her lips, and Tanna grinned at her and held a finger to her own before the dance carried her away, golden footprints telling her where she should step, where she should jump, where she should spin and turn and duck, until, exhausted but laughing with euphoria she tumbled out from between two trees and grabbed Grant by both hands, spinning him with her. "Found you!" she crowed.

—

Zander grinned as he saw the ugly girl from Four stagger just a little as the storm was closing around her, veiling her from sight. She hadn't held on _quite_ long enough, and who was he to ignore an invitation like that? The storm was like a slap to the face, its roar annoying and worrisome, depriving him of one of his favorite senses, but it would hurt everyone else just as much as it did him—and the driving sheets of rain would make thrown and shot weapons far less accurate, which he could only see as an advantage given his own lack of proficiency in that area. His face was soaked in seconds, and some water slipped down the neck of his raincoat, but not enough to cause any extreme discomfort as he slogged through the mud. He hung back, watching, trailing her, a smile twisting his lips as her limp gradually grew a little deeper, her movement less sure. Gradually, he grew closer, confident that she couldn't hear him over the raging storm, and she wasn't expending the energy to watch her back—a foolish mistake. Even when she _did_ glance back, she telegraphed it so he could easily slip behind a tree before she'd turned enough to see him.

She paused, leaning on one hand on the trunk of a tree, the bad knee slightly raised, taking the pressure off it, head down—and his grin widened. He slipped forward closer, drawing his sword, raised it—

And the girl spun, all her weight firmly on a leg that appeared to have no problem bearing it, the hand that had not been on the tree bringing a dagger straight for his stomach, well beneath his sword.

Swearing, he tried to change his strike to a parry, sliding aside and bringing his sword between them defensively, and limited her slash to a scratch across his ribs rather than a truly dangerous blow. He recovered quickly and attacked, trying to take advantage of the length of his sword against her little daggers, but she hopped behind the tree she'd been leaning on, and he had to pull the blow and edge after her for another attack, his free hand pulling a long dagger from a sheath at his hip—he preferred swords, but in these tight quarters the shorter weapon might serve him better.

She was waiting for him, and threw a knife as soon as he was in view—his own dagger was up to deflect it, but another gust of wind sent the weapon into a wobble and it caught him in the shoulder instead of following a path he could easily block—or killing him, which was, presumably the intention. Zander took quick stock, then muttered another oath and backed off. The girl showed some signs of pressing the fight, but a defensive slash caught her forehead—not enough to do any real damage, but head wounds bleed and it was flowing into one of her eyes. He toyed with the question of continuing after all—he had the knife in his shoulder and a little slice across his stomach, but she'd be half-blind—but no. Better to wait for now, than risk worse injury this early in the game. He eased back, and this time she didn't follow. They would probably meet again. And next time he'd know not to believe any weakness she showed him, not letting her get in a free first blow.

—

Grant weighed his options as he moved through the storm, straight out from the clearing, not letting the wind push him into its own trajectory. He held the sword loosely in his right hand, used his left to protect his eyes from the worst of the storm, and tried to decide what to do next. He was reasonably certain that he'd made his trail at least difficult to follow, and none of the Careers had demonstrated any keen sense in tracking during training, so they should have trouble catching him. He had a weapon, not the best sword he'd ever used, but acceptably balanced and no huge flaws. Water wouldn't be a problem. He had no food, and he was soaked and growing chilled, more quickly now that the light, never intense through the raging storm, was starting to dim. He needed to find some level of shelter, where he could at least get out of the wind and, preferably, at least somewhat dry. Given time, he could make a lean-to, there were plenty of materials available, but it would be obvious to anyone who stumbled across it. He'd keep an eye out for a hollow tree and try to keep moving to higher ground for now, and see what he could find.

The wind carried the sound of a footstep, and he was instantly on the defense, sword—hand tightening slightly, balance moving to the balls of his feet, every sense alert. There was a gust of wind and a breaking branch and the patter of footsteps—and he spun, thrusting—and barely managed to reverse the sword's momentum before Tanna grabbed both his hands with no sign of even noticing the sword, calling gleefully, "Found you!"

"I almost killed you!" he hissed.

She laughed. "You're not going to kill me. You don't want to. C'mon," she added, releasing one of his hands but keeping hold of the other and tugging him on a diagonal from the trajectory he'd been planning to follow.

"What—where—"

"The cave," she said simply. "It's brown. And warm. You're cold," she added, looking him over critically.

"So are you," he pointed out, taking in the faint bluish tint to her lips and the pale bloodlessness of her face.

She giggled. "I'm not cold—I'm dancing! Come on!"

He hesitated for a moment before giving in to the pressure of her hand. Then he glanced back and swore at the clarity of the path she'd travelled. "Tanna! You have to hide your tracks or they'll find us too soon!"

She looked back and blinked at him. "What difference does it make?" she said. "How can you hide it?"

"It makes a difference because the sooner they find us the less prepared we'll be," he said as patiently as he could. "And you can walk on stone and through water and—anywhere that doesn't show as much as in the mud, and try to avoid breaking branches and—"

She shook her head impatiently. "But who cares about some stupid footprints?" she demanded. "You're here. The gross one's there, with the purple spiky one behind him, Twelve-girl's waaaayyyy over that way, she's the furthest, with Pretty and Two-boy behind her, and—"

Grant grabbed her wrists and stared at her. "Tanna. You know where they are? All of them? Everyone?"

"Of course," she said.

He took a breath, released it. "That's how you found me?"

"I thought you'd like the warm place, and you were sorta on the way, so I thought I'd get you first."

"Okay," he said, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with this—and if he should believe it or just take it as further evidence that she was insane. But she _had_ found him. "Okay. Uh. _How_ do you know?"

She blinked up at him. "How do _you_ _not_?"

For a long moment, they stared at each other, then he nodded acceptance. "Okay. Well. That—that should be useful. But—but the rest of us don't know that. They have to find us by following the signs we make—the footprints and things. So we need to try not to leave any."

She looked doubtfully back. "But yours are bright blue," she pointed out. "No matter what you stepped on. How can you _hide_ that?"

"Right," he said. "Okay. Just—trust me. The rest of us don't see it like that. Let's do it like this—you tell me generally which way to go, and I'll lead the way and you step exactly where I do. Okay?"

She smiled. "Sure," she said, pointing. "It'll be like a game! That way!"

—

Posy squeezed herself into a jag in the base of the overhang, and told herself that without the wind she was almost warm. It wasn't exactly convincing, but she'd convinced herself of worse lies in the past. The way the rocks were set up, she'd be pretty hard to see unless someone was right on top of her—the fact that there was a space to hide, even, was well-disguised. It seemed like the best place she'd seen so far to spend the night, and the darkness now couldn't be blamed just on the storm. It was definitely darker.

It got still darker quickly, and she wedged herself a little more deeply into the crevasse, trying to find a balance between relaxing a little and staying in her cover. The first notes of the anthem struck, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then opened them, squirming out just enough that she'd have a view of the sky when the pictures started. Her jaw dropped at the first face, the handsome, confident boy from One, the one who could use every weapon in the training grounds and who hadn't appeared to even consider it a possibility that anyone else could win. The pair from Three were no surprise—but then _another_ Career, the boy from Four. The only other surprises were in omission. Isra, incredibly, wasn't shown. And the deaf boy was still out there, too. Everyone else pretty much made sense, though she'd hoped that maybe the boy from Nine would be up there. She shivered as she slid back into the depths of her hiding space and closed her eyes. She probably couldn't actually sleep, she was cold and wet and the position was far from comfortable—but she could rest. Tomorrow would bring more deaths and more running and more hunger and cold and misery, so she'd better at least steal what rest she could.

—

Myra snickered silently as Dug finally gave up with a growl at almost full dark, slamming one fist into a tree and glaring at the ground in front of him. "I know you're watching me," he snarled loudly, looking all around.

Her laugh broke off and her eyes narrowed, rebalancing her weight, ready to run if he made a move towards her. He couldn't catch her if she didn't give him a chance to close the gap—he was too slow. And he might be bluffing—

"So you listen up," he continued. "You want the kid killed—you know it, I know it. You know I'm the best one for the job. So you want it done right, you give me some way to track him down, huh? Cuz this wandering around the fucking forest isn't getting' your rebel dead any faster. Think about it." And then he dropped his pack, sat down with his back against a tree, and glared at the sky.

Relaxing, Myra shook her head with the realization that he'd been talking to the audience. If he honestly thought—

A soft beeping drew both their gazes up, and her eyes widened at the silvery parachute dropping through the storm, its path apparently untouched by the buffeting winds as it fell directly into Dug's waiting hands. He grinned nastily as he opened it and pulled out something that looked like a little compass. "Thanks," he said. "I promise you—first thing tomorrow when there's enough light to see where I'm going—I'll go get him." Then he started pulling food out of his pack, ate some dinner, pulled the hood of his raincoat low over his face and tilted his head back against the tree. And within moments he was snoring.

Myra stared in absolute disbelief. Partly at how fast he'd gone to sleep—and mostly at the fact that the Gamemakers responded to his request. Instantly. With exactly what he asked for. Which meant he was right. They wanted this. And that meant that if she killed him now, they'd be more than a little upset with her. So. She would have to rethink her plans a little.

She waited an hour before slipping out of hiding and approaching him. She grabbed the pack, glanced in, and extracted a little knife. She brought it _almost_ to Dug's throat—and then looked at the nearest camera and deliberately moved it away, instead cutting several slashes into his coat. She didn't touch the compass. Didn't touch the sword or the club he had handy. Nothing he'd need to do the job they wanted him for, distasteful though that decision was. Once he'd killed the boy, she'd kill him. Once she wouldn't be punished for it. She slid away from his camp and slipped up into a tree, slowly eating rations from the liberated pack before closing it, putting it on backwards over her chest, and letting her eyes drift closed. Half down, half to go. Dug and his prey, and the crazy girl from Six. For the Careers, the girls from One and Four, and both Twos. And then the volunteer from 12, the girl from 10, the deaf boy, and the gentle giant with the rocks. Eleven to go. And herself, of course. Myra pulled her poncho a little further over her face and let herself drift into a light slumber.


	8. Chapter 8: Morning's Developments

**Chapter Eight  
The Morning's Developments**

"Are you sure nobody else knows where everyone is?" Tanna asked, staring at the wall of the cave.

Grant nodded, finishing his stretches. The familiar routine and the surprising warmth of the cave were calming, as was the utterly unlooked for presence of a friend, if Tanna could be called that. But what else _could_ he call someone in the Arena who hunted him down and, instead of trying to kill him, led him straight to shelter. A friend he, perhaps, didn't deserve, given how he'd tried to avoid her before. But while he still might not be thrilled with her saying he was sparkly, he no longer thought it was anything but the truth as she saw it. "Not that I've ever heard of," he said.

" _Really_ sure?"

He rose, as much as he could without hitting his head on the cave's low ceiling, and looked at her more directly, concerned. "Why do you ask?"

"Cuz he's coming _straight_ here," she said.

Grant bit back an oath. "Who? Dug?" She nodded. "How far out is he? When do you think he'll get here?"

"Five or ten minutes?" she offered uncertainly.

He nodded shortly. "Okay," he said on a sharp exhalation, gathering his thoughts. "Then let's not trap ourselves. We'll go outside and separate a little. He might not know there are two of us. If he comes after me, you run. I'll take care of it. If he comes after you, don't panic. I'll help. I won't let him hurt you." He had no doubts as to his ability to take Dug. Especially with a warning of his imminent arrival. He sorted quickly through their meager shared possessions, and held the poncho out to her. Her eyes flickered towards it, then she was back to staring at where Dug was presumably coming from. Rolling his eyes, he snapped open the plastic and pulled it over her head, using the sword to slice twin lines in the center, splitting it, and tying each half around one of her legs to hopefully minimize flapping.

She offered him a hint of a smile and held out her arms, spreading the plastic. "You gave me wings!" she crowed, her distress over Dug's approach apparently forgotten. "I can _fly_!"

"Yeah, let's not test that," he said, picking his sword back up. "Come on." Grant led the way out of the cave and away from the entrance—flinching as he emerged from the safety of the cave and the rain buffeted him, instantly soaking through his shirt and whipping at his face. It was good Dug was coming with the wind and not against it, there was no chance they'd be heard if he had to shout a bit, and he should get a little more warning before the older boy's arrival. Dismissing the thought as useful but not something requiring any more concentration, he looked around for someplace to stash Tanna.

Spotting a thick patch of brush, Grant pointed and then, careful not to leave any more tracks than necessary, lead her to it and pushed her gently down into it. "Hide in there," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. "Like I said, if he comes for me and is distracted—you run away. If I win you can come back, or after he leaves if I lose. You'll know when it's safe better than me, I guess."

She looked towards him with a grin which melted as her gaze grew as intense as it had been earlier on the cave wall. A crease formed between her brows and her arms slowly wrapped around herself in something Grant didn't think was cold.

"Hide," he said more urgently, giving her another little shove.

She scuttled backwards into the underbrush without ever taking her eyes off him, her lips thin, face drawn, not with—not fear, but something else. "It opened up," she said, finally, her voice barely audible over the storm. "And all the spikiness is flooding out, and I _told_ them it was wrong and bad."

Grant's blood ran cold in instant understanding as he wondered how he could have forgotten. Whatever poison they'd put into his tracker, it had just activated. They didn't have any intention of letting him have a fair fight with Dug. After all—he'd _win_ a fair fight. He took another deep breath and almost choked as it felt like he got as much rain as air, but swallowed and blew it back out. "Okay," he said. "Got it. I want you to run away, okay? And remember about trying to hide your tracks."

She didn't answer, and the seconds were passing, and he wasn't sure if the chill was the poison or an expectation of feeling something or just the wind throwing more rain at him, but he didn't have _time_ for her to be stubborn. He grabbed her by both shoulders and gave her a shake, and she finally looked up from his chest and met his gaze. " _Please_ , Tanna," he shouted. "You have to run away. Promise me!"

Finally, she nodded slightly.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he nodded and dropped his voice again, no need for her to hear it when he was talking to himself. "Okay. Then let's see what I can do to even the odds a little."

—

Tanna watched him, watched the little spikey balls spreading through him, slipping into his arms and legs and fingers and toes, taking a grip and waiting. They pulsed a little, as if they were excited about their work, and it made her stomach heave. He was a calm silver-blue where she could see him through the brown muck, and that soothed her a little bit, but not enough, because there was a tree growing out of him, and it wasn't like the one that had grown from her in her interview, beautiful and golden and lovely. Instead, it was stunted and twisted and horrible, and she didn't want it to be in him. She dropped her gaze to her fingers, watching them for a moment as they lengthened and slid into the cold mud, rooting her, and she pulled them up. She'd promised. She'd run. And she couldn't run if she was rooted.

Grant hid, but there was no point in hiding because there was a big arrow pointing straight at him wherever he was, and for once she wasn't the only one who could see it, because the monster was holding the other end in his hand and following it. She wrapped her arms around herself and reminded herself to run when it started.

—

Myra jerked from her light doze at the first sign of movement from her prey. She had positioned herself carefully, with plenty of whipping leaves between them as camouflage, but making sure she could still see him. She was reasonably confident he wouldn't see her. He showed no sign of any particular skill in observation, and generally people didn't look up much. He shivered, then swore and bounded to his feet, letting out a screech as water that had pooled on his jacket while he was still poured in through the cuts she'd made in it. It was, Myra decided, totally worth not looking for better cover for the night to enjoy this show this morning. She didn't bother trying to hide her enjoyment, figuring it wouldn't hurt if anyone was watching.

"Come out!" he howled. "Come out and face me, you coward!" He spun this way and that, brandishing his big hammer, as though he expected someone to actually pop out at his request, and she slipped one hand into her pocket, pulled out the half ration bar she'd started last night. She'd taken several of them, but there was no saying how long the Game was going to last, so she figured she'd best pace herself. She gnawed off a piece of the tough bar and chewed, watching as he continued shouting threats and imprecations as he looked frantically for the pack currently on her chest. Finally, maybe assuming that whoever had stolen from him was long gone, Dug turned his attention to the little compass in his off hand, a big hammer drawn in the other, and started trudging through the storm, swearing at the weather but never wavering in his path. Once he'd gotten a bit ahead, she slipped down from her perch and followed him. She was unnecessarily cautious—he never once looked back.

It wasn't all that long a walk, even with the wind trying to blow them off course and the ground to suck them into it. Perhaps half an hour of following the little compass before a rock came through the rain and Dug raised his arm to ward it off and another caught him in the face below the arm.

Dug roared, dropping the compass, moving the hammer down in front of him and rushing towards the figure who had thrown the stones. The rebel had seen he was coming and got the jump on him, apparently. Myra smiled a little and leaned back, hoping he'd kick Dug's ass. Certainly he'd seemed able to take care of himself in training, and even before training officially started when he'd taken Dug on before the parade. Her smile faded quickly as the fight started in earnest. The kid was holding his own—but barely. Something was different. His movements were slower and sometimes a little jerky as though he were moving through mud—encased in it rather than merely walking on it. A flurry of motion to the side caught her attention, and she caught a glimpse of the crazy girl disappearing at a sprint. She turned her gaze back to the fight, where they were still even but the boy was showing more and more signs of difficulty controlling his body. She bit her tongue and didn't let herself glare at the camera as she realized what was happening. Whatever the girl had been talking about on the shuttle—about his tracker being rigged—this was it. But she couldn't say anything, not if she wanted to live. The Gamemakers had to get what they wanted.

Dug managed to bash the kid near the elbow of his sword arm, and the blade dropped from his fingers. He scooped it up with the other hand, but the motion was awkward, as though she hadn't seen him fighting left-handed with the trainers a dozen times. He pushed on, and she suddenly realized what he was after. He knew—he _had_ to know about the poison. He was trying to make Dug kill him quickly instead of whatever the bastard had planned. And maybe buying the girl a bit of time, too. Given how he'd come across, maybe that was even the part he was thinking about, though she doubted Dug had even noticed the girl.

Clenching her hands into fists to keep them still, Myra watched Dug roughly parry a blow, knocking the sword free again and kicking it away before swinging the hammer in a painfully slow arc that at any other time the kid would have no trouble dodging. The kid did dodge it, but lost his footing in the mud and went down hard, went to roll to his feet, but slipped again, and before he could rise Dug was there, kicking him viciously in the ribs and stomach and spewing foul insults and promises the whole while. He finally stopped kicking, and the boy took a ragged, gasping breath, tried yet again to get up and fight, and fell back, gasping. Dug tossed his hammer aside and smiled nastily. "That's more like it," he said. "Now you're starting to learn your place." He grabbed the waistband of the kids pants and jerked, sending a button flying and tearing them open despite the rebel's weak attempts to fight him off.

Myra stopped hesitating. She'd given them enough. There was no fucking way she was going to let Misty watch him do that. She slipped out of hiding and up behind him, slitting his throat before he knew she was there. He gasped and tried to turn, tried to speak or fight—and she smiled at him. "See?" she snarled, raising her voice enough that he could hear her. "You got to die confident after all." Then she stuck her knife into his side and twisted it, just because she could, and he died in the midst of gurgling attempts at screaming.

She turned to Grant, who was staring up at her, one eye swollen shut and the other halfway, gasping for breath through broken ribs, and clenched her teeth. She didn't say anything. Even to please the Gamemasters she wasn't going to continue with Dug's vitriol, and anything that would have reassured him would have upped her chances of a convenient accident later. Besides, there wasn't much in the situation to be reassuring about. But she waited for the cannon signifying Dug's death, and then cleaned her knife before using it the second time, not wanting Dug's blood on it when it killed him. Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe the audience would take it as her just taking her time, savoring the moment, cruelly drawing it out. All the better, if so.

He didn't speak before she killed him, didn't thank her for stopping Dug or beg her to spare him or anything else. That was fine. She didn't feel much like chatting, either.

—

Precious blinked as the crazy girl she'd been tracking the day before, easily at first and then more just looking for signs of her when she suddenly started hiding her tracks, burst out of the trees and crossed ahead of her, heading back towards the Cornucopia—then she laughed and set off in pursuit. If her prey wanted to be obvious, who was she to refuse?

—

Nessa curled in the bushes, knowing how much warmer and drier she'd be if she moved just a few yards, into the clearing instead of just outside it, but that would put her in the open, and nothing good would come of that. She thought longingly of the silver blanket she'd left behind in the cornucopia. She'd used one before, in the winter with the herds, and knew just how warm the flimsy thing would be. But she might as well put flares around her, it would be about as eye-catching, so she'd left it behind and just put on heavier clothes and a brown rain suit with a hood, which was much better than nothing. She hadn't slept during the night, or maybe she had, a little, but she didn't think so. It was a nightmare eternity of dark and cold and wet and the roar of the wind that occasionally brought with it Isra's unending sobbing and begging for her Daddy to come get her. She'd stop for a while, sometimes, but she'd always start again, get quieter for a time, and then roar back to full volume, and then it didn't even matter if the wind was coming the right way. Nessa sometimes kinda wished that one of the Careers actually _had_ killed the giant, and then she'd have to fight back tears for thinking it.

She caught her breath as a flash of movement caught her eye, and ducked deeper into her hiding place, waiting to see if her traps worked as the crazy girl from Eleven broke from cover and started dashing towards the clearing, somehow managing to miss every single one of her trip wires. She sighed—then blinked as another form, the too-perfect girl from Two, burst from the same spot, eyes on her prey, not even looking where her feet were landing. Nessa bit her lip and worked her fingers on the leather of the sling, trying to make sure they were warm enough to work right if it was necessary.

—

Bella moved back towards the clearing, giving up on the little Twelve for now. She'd lost her trail last night, given up in the dark, and then circled for a while this morning trying to find it. Enough was enough, though, and she gave up when the boom of the canon rumbled through the howl of the storm twice in quick succession. No point rushing the game, and no point running in circles if she couldn't find a track, not when the field was thinning. She grew more cautious as she approached the Cornucopia's clearing. It was always the most dangerous place in the arena, though often the most incongruous. There were less likely to be natural dangers, but far, far higher chance of attack.

She reached the edge of the clearing and paused, searching for any sign of danger. Just as she was about to break cover, a rustling across the way stopped her, and she saw a form zig-zagging through the storm on the far side of the clearing then dashing away to the right. She waited, then smiled as the girl from One rushed out, obviously chasing the first figure—and her smile widened slightly when the older girl suddenly screamed and fell, and while she couldn't hear a snap over the rage of the storm, her leg was definitely broken—that or she had an extra joint in her right leg. Besides, the howl of pain _was_ audible over the storm, and even a One wouldn't shriek like that over a hangnail. Bella crept closer, around, rather than straight across, almost certain that no accident had caused that fall, and nodded to herself when a little mouse of a girl, one of the ones who had been self-righteous in the interviews (though that described a lot of them this year) slipped out from the bushes and swung her sling, sending rocks at Precious's head until the girl stopped screaming, stopped moving. Then the girl crept closer to the still form.

Bella moved quietly and carefully, approaching against the wind to give her more leeway with noise, and squinting against the rain stinging her eyes, looking for more traps. The girl wouldn't be the first spider the Games had ever seen, noticing that people always came back to the Cornucopia and weaving webs to catch them on their arrival, and Bella had no intention of following the example of the stupid One. She looked before placing each foot or hand, and when the girl stood up and saw her, jerking and freezing like a startled rabbit, she smiled, but didn't rush. She didn't need to rush. This was no Career she couldn't afford to give a few seconds to. The girl's eyes slipped down and right, and Bella followed them, seeing the trip wire. "Thanks," she said, and stepped over it, taking two more steps while the smaller girl stood and trembled, apparently not even able to run. When she finally tried, it was too late, and Bella easily caught her and killed her, smiling the while. The cameras were on her, after all.

Her smile brightened further when she heard a soft, tell-tale beep. Apparently someone had enjoyed her performance... The smile faded when she saw the parachute slipping not towards her, but towards the hulking moron sobbing in the center of the clearing. "You've gotta be fucking _kidding_ me," she muttered. Then, as the parachute settled and big baby showed no sign of even noticing it, shook her head. "I don't _think_ so."

She picked up the sling the mouse had dropped and checked the girl's pockets for shot, then set it whirling over her head. It took six stones to topple the giant, each one well-placed, but her head was as hard as the fucking stones. Finally, though, she shut up, and Bella stalked forward and finished her with the axe just to be on the safe side before opening the little package. There was a note. "I love you. —Daddy." And one of those pastries she'd liked so much in the Capitol. People were so stupid she could hardly bear it. How the fuck would a pastry help this moron who was obviously going to die? Who the fuck would spend the money on that?

Snarling, she glared at the camera, picked up the pastry, and ate it in two bites. "Deee-licious," she said, wiping her fingers on the back of the dead girl's shirt.

She turned to go and staggered a little. "Fuck," she muttered, taking another step and dropping to one knee. "Oh fuck _me_ ," she murmured in belated understanding. "Fucking philanthropists. I fucking hate fucking philanthropists."

And then the darkness closed around her, warm and comforting when she wanted neither.

—

Myra took a couple long breaths, as the rebels' kid breathed his last, and then glanced around. There must be some kind of shelter. He and the crazy girl had looked way too good to have weathered the night in the open with one poncho between them, and if she found it, maybe she had some chance at getting actually dry and warmish. It didn't seem likely to be a long Game, but if she could drag herself into something resembling good condition, that would increase her chances. She quickly searched both the boys' bodies, taking Grant's short sword and glaring disgustedly at Dug's hammer. He couldn't have taken a staff instead? That would at least have been useful. Maybe not enough to meet a Career on equal terms, but she'd practiced with staff. She'd looked at a few fallen branches and things, but they were so soaked she didn't trust them not to break if they hit something. She swung the sword, testing it, and swore aloud as she nearly cut herself, automatically reaching to catch it in one of the staff moves she'd learned. Right. Bad idea.

And then she realized she was an idiot. With the sword and the knife she found in Dug's boot, she could cut a small tree into a staff if she could find one the right size. The wetness shouldn't matter with live wood. She hoped. So. Explore the immediate area. Find an appropriate tree. Find whatever shelter there was. Hole up in it and make herself a weapon. Eat as much of the rations she'd stolen the night before from Dug as she wanted, because she needed to be in as close to top form as possible, there was no point rationing. If it went as long as all that, she'd have to figure something else out anyway. And throughout, she reminded herself as she heard the canon blast signifying Grant's death, keep in mind that there could be others coming, so keep hiding her tracks and keep wary and hidden. Right. She smiled grimly, kicking Dug's corpse in the nuts one more time before sliding back into the trees, knowing she wouldn't have another chance, since the bodies would be collected soon.

—

Merith's eyes narrowed as the canon went off four more times within the course of ten minutes. The game was going fast, and she still hadn't found one little deaf halfwit. She knew she was on his trail. She found a few footprints or a fabric strands on a bush or some sign of his passage every time she thought she'd lost him and was going to give up, but she couldn't seem to _catch_ him, and it was driving her nuts. The two canon shots a while back weren't so bad—but four more in the last ten minutes meant they were down to the last quarter and she shouldn't still be in the middle of nowhere with no kills since the bloodbath—she should be heading back to the clearing for the end game by now!

Snarling in frustration, she glanced over her shoulder, undecided, and then back to the dragging footprints she'd just found. One more hour. And if she still couldn't catch up to him, fuck it—he had to be close to hypothermia by now, and she couldn't afford to be distracted by him much longer.

—

Posy woke up with a jerk when the cannon went off, loud even over the howl of the storm. She was feeling kind of warm and fuzzy, and had spent enough of her life freezing to know that she was in real and immediate danger because there was no _way_ she was _actually_ not cold, which meant that she was lucky to have woken up at all. Probably she wouldn't have if it weren't for the cannon. Nice of someone to die and save her from hyperthermia like that, she thought a little giddily. She had to get warmer. And drier. And something into her stomach. If she couldn't manage those things, then she would die right here and save the others the trouble of killing her. But... she was so warm and comfortable. And would it really be so bad to just go back to sleep and let that be the end of it instead of dying violently for the amusement of the viewing public? She closed her eyes and bit her lip, thinking about it. Wondering who the cannon had been for. Who was left. She wrapped her arms around herself and reminded herself that she had to make a decision. Go back to sleep and die easily, or go in search of food and keep the possibility of survival open—but probably die violently and painfully at the hands of another kid. She sighed.

Muffling a groan, she dragged herself to her feet, every muscle aching and cramping with the sudden move, feeling as though she'd been frozen into place and was tearing herself apart breaking the form. It would be so, so much easier to just roll over and die. She could even call it an act of defiance. Like Rosin's. She understood what he'd done, and she could kind of do the same. Except she couldn't. Because she'd always sucked at giving up, and because she'd told Paden she was going to try. So.

She jumped in place, swinging her arms, the rain sluicing over her, the wind cold even through the numbness that had enveloped her. Gradually, the worst of the numbness gave over to agony, and she reminded herself that that was a _good_ change. That meant maybe she wouldn't die right now. And not dying was desirable. She kept jumping until she stopped stumbling, until she felt just a bit of warmth deep inside, and the cold was fully present and miserable again everywhere else. Until she could move without tripping on numb feet. And then she looked up at the clouds roiling across the sky, saw the way they were moving in this constant, circling storm, and headed back towards the center, the clearing. She had to get warm and she had to eat, and the only way to reasonably expect to do those things was to return to the Cornucopia. She moved carefully, sticking to the underbrush, and moving slowly and cautiously, all too aware that she wasn't really at her best and taking extra precautions at being quiet and remaining hidden.

She froze as she heard another cannon blast and, almost immediately afterwards, another. Finally, she started moving forward again, hunching her shoulders and dropping her face against the driving rain, trying not to leave obvious tracks for anyone to stumble over , only to stop and drop into a crouch as the cannon went off again—and then again a few minutes after that. She paused, considering, trying to figure out what could cause people to be dying so quickly. There could be some kind of Arena hazard, she supposed, but anything that deadly this early in the games would not go over well, and the designers surely realized that. Which meant—what? They could, possibly, be unrelated. Could be at far corners of the Arena, various people had met up at the same time. But Posy wasn't really very convinced by coincidence, generally. No, she suspected that what it meant was that others had had the same idea as her. People were heading back towards the Cornucopia, whether for supplies or because they knew the others would be. That was the only way she could think of that a number of people would be at the same place at the same time. Another deep shiver wracked her form, and she sighed. It didn't matter. She had to go back anyway. It was still the only option other than giving up.

—

Zander didn't let his utter aggravation at the way the games were going show in face or movement. He might not be able to _see_ the cameras, but he knew they were on him, and that meant he had to stay cocky and confident and look as though everything were going exactly as planned. Even if the truth was that it was getting towards the middle of the second day, the first _full_ day, eighteen kids were already dead, almost a third of them today, which meant he didn't know _which_ ones, and only two had been at his hand—and those two were practically pointless! This was _not_ how things were meant to go. He'd spent the night reasonably warm and dry, which was a point in his favor. He had eaten plenty. But then, the other five left might also be warm and dry and fed and just as ready to murder him as he was them.

So. The real question came down to whether or not to play it safe. He could hide, wait until night and find out who was actually left, who'd died today. Spend another day maintaining his condition while his possibly less-well-provisioned opponents suffered. Or he could go find somebody to kill, which shouldn't be that hard given the number of cannon blasts in a relatively short period of time: they were at the Cornucopia.

He toyed with the idea of playing it safe. His trainers would, at this point, recommend it, he was reasonably sure. Nothing was going as planned, and that should make him cautious. He had a minor injury that could hurt his chances in a fight he didn't set up to be in his favor off the bat. He had plenty of food and water and a safeish place he could spend the rest of the day and the evening. It was far too early and the death toll growing too rapidly for the Gamemasters to send anything to prompt him back to center. It would be the reasonable thing to do. The smart thing.

He grinned suddenly. Like he'd said at his interview—he'd never been above average in schoolwork. And another piece of modesty? He sucked at being patient, too.

He skipped a couple steps before breaking into a jog, heading back towards the cornucopia.

—

Jedric had stopped shivering. That, he knew, was not a good thing, not at all. He was running out of time to act: if he waited much longer, then all of his work would be for nothing. He could die with nobody even realizing he'd been acting, which would be kind of funny in a way—but it would be the kind of funny that would make his father howl with laughter, and all things being equal, he'd rather kill somebody now than that. Besides, the girl hunting him was getting frustrated and impatient. He'd scouted the area, considered a number of possible plans, circling back periodically to keep an eye on the girl hunting him, and knew she was getting ready to give up. He'd felt the shock waves of the cannon fire, and she would surely read it the same way he was—the end was coming and anyone out here in the middle of nowhere was going to miss it. He took a breath, watching her closely. The spear made him nervous. She hadn't trained with a spear in practice, which might mean it wasn't a weapon she liked, except that she took it from all the options the Cornucopia offered, which made him think she'd been sneaky and maybe it was her best weapon and she didn't want anyone to know what she could do. He had no way of knowing what her range was, though surely between the trees and the deluge any thrown weapon would be limited?

He ran his path again in his head. She had to follow him—without quite catching up or killing him, for about fifty yards. Not so very far. And at the end of it, she'd have to be _close_. Close enough not to stop. Not to dodge. Not to have time to figure out what he was doing. And he wasn't sure of his own speed and dexterity given how cold he was. He bit his lip, second-guessing himself, his plan. But there wasn't any choice, it was the best one he'd come up with, and he'd just have to make it work. He took a breath, released it, slow and controlled, flexed and released his muscles, warming them as well as he could. She would be running directly into the wind and rain, whereas he would run at an angle to it, he reminded himself. And the terrain was better for him: she'd have to plow through or go around some thick bushes, while he had a straight shot. That should also prevent her just throwing the damn spear. So this was it, he told himself when he still didn't start moving. Time to go.

He planted a foot, started pushing off, and aborted the motion with a silent oath when the trees on the far side of the other girl shook and then ejected the girl who'd helped him in training, the one who was crazy or psychic or both. Her eyes were locked right on his, apparently totally oblivious to the girl between them as she ran like a demon was chasing her, mouth moving. The hunter spun to face her, spear rising, flying. And, somehow, Tanna _twisted_ , an expression of utter delight on her face as the spear flew by her and she grinned at the Career, trying to share her pleasure. Only Jedric figured probably the other girl wasn't laughing. Or, if she was, it wasn't at the same joke.


	9. Chapter 9: Endgame

**Chapter Nine**

 **Endgame**

It was almost a shock to step into the clearing, the rain cutting off as abruptly as though there were a ceiling—only stranger, because the rain was blowing almost horizontally and, _still,_ moving out of the trees was absolutely leaving behind the storm. The wind was stiller, the rain non-existent, even the sound of the raging storm was slightly muted. Posy entered the clearing cautiously, ready to spin and run at the faintest motion other than the constant sway and shake of storm-blown trees, but nothing happened. She looked around, waiting for some trap to spring, and saw nothing more threatening than footprints and blood stains. Jerkily, moving awkwardly from suddenly not having to fight the wind with every step, she started towards the center of the clearing. She stumbled, leaning into a wind that wasn't there, and caught herself. She took one more look around before taking a breath and slipping into the mouth of the cornucopia, knowing that if anyone saw her go in she would be trapped. There was no victorious shout or anything, though, so she figured maybe, somehow, she was the only one here. Quickly, she found a backpack and began sorting through the things left behind by others. She pulled off her soaked shirt and replacing it with a sweater and a raincoat, loading the pack with one water bottle, a little box of pellets that weren't labeled but that she recognized as water purifiers, rope, some protein bars (devouring one on the spot), a plastic sheet, and a knife. She tucked another knife into her boot and found a third with a belt sheath, which she quickly attached to her belt. She glanced around, took in the vast selection of _things_ , knowing that any of them could be useful—and decided it was better to travel light and get the hell out of here before anyone else showed up.

She paused at the entrance, peering out, trying to decide if anyone was hiding in the trees, watching, just waiting for her to make a move. Maybe it would be better to hide in here, where there was cover. But that was insanity, because this is where everyone was going to come and she _knew_ that. She bit her lip, peering out into the forest—and then she ran. She breathed a little more easily when she hit the trees, diving into some thick underbrush and stilling, looking back at the clearing to see if anything was happening. She was almost warm, her belly something other than completely empty—and, somehow, she'd managed to make her supply run without gaining any attention. It hardly seemed possible, but there was no movement, so she settled in to wait. And then a heavy weight dropped down on top of her, and she screamed.

* * *

"Shut _up_ ," Myra hissed, roughly putting a hand over the girl's mouth. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The girl kept shuddering, but managed to cut off her scream, big terrified eyes looking up at her.

She moved her hand, and nodded. "Sorry I surprised you. Figured if I called out first there'd be even odds about you stabbing me or something." The tree they were under blocked just enough wind that she didn't have to shout to be heard.

"So—so you don't think I'll stab you now?" the girl asked.

Myra grinned and shrugged. "You might," she admitted, "but I don't think so. I figure it's tougher when it's not spur of the moment. Fight or flight and all that. Or even from ambush, when you figure if your positions were reversed _you'd_ be dead. The Careers could do it, no problem. But you're not a Career. So I figure if I come out and make nice maybe you'll refrain from stabbing me."

"Maybe you're just waiting for me to drop my guard."

"Honey," Myra said, grinning, "your guard was _dropped_. If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead."

And apparently the girl had to admit that was a fair point, if only to herself, because she nodded and said, "Then—what?"

"I figure time enough for that if we're the last ones left. There's still Careers out there, unless all four of those last canons were for them. And I figure neither of us is ready to go head-to-head with a Career. Two-on-one, though, maybe we could take 'em. And I'd rather you or me win than one of them."

"So—so you're suggesting a truce?"

Myra nodded. "Sure."

"What about the first two?" Posy asked suddenly.

"First two...?"

"You said the last four canons, but there've been six today."

"Good girl," Myra said approvingly. "Yeah. I was there for the first two."

The girl's hand grabbed for her knife, suddenly afraid again, and Myra spread her hands. "Still not gonna hurt you," she said. "The first was Grant."

Posy stared at her hands, opened her mouth, probably to say something that would get her in trouble with the audience, so she pushed on, feeling her smile harden. "The second was Dug. Which means that, really, I accomplished my goal in coming here. I figured of everyone here, you'd be pretty much the only one who understood that."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Posy's hands relaxed and she smiled back. "Yeah, I guess so," she said. After a long moment, she added, "He seemed like slime."

"Nah, no need to go insulting slime," Myra said easily.

"So... what do you think we should do?" Posy asked. "Working together, I mean."

"Well. I had this idea, not sure it'll work, don't think I've ever seen in done before—but see what you think."

* * *

Merith shook her head in amused pity as the crazy girl burst out of the trees at her, dancing and grinning like she was at a party or something. She hefted her spear once, waited for a gust of wind to pass, and threw, her aim perfect as always, the spear cutting straight through the girl's throat. It would be quick, at least. She always tried to make it quick when she could. She started forward to retrieve the spear, then jerked around with an oath as there was a sudden noise behind her. And the deaf halfwit she'd been trying to find for a freaking day-and-a-half burst out of the trees twenty yards away, cutting across the clearing. Her eyes went to the spear in the girl's throat—and then she swore and started running. She didn't need the spear to take him. Still had her dagger, and even without that, she could break his neck. It wasn't like he was equipped to fight back, just running in a panic like he had been all along. And if she stopped to retrieve the weapon and lost him again, well... She was sick of hunting him and just wanted to finish him off.

He ran like a startled animal, in an almost straight line, jumping over obstacles and dodging around trees, but not in any sensible fashion, not like he was actually trying to get anywhere—or away from anything specific. Hell, he hadn't even seen her. Well, that would make this easier. She narrowed her eyes and ran faster, gaining on him, hands reaching out. One hand brushed the fabric of his shirt, but he jerked away with a wordless yowl of fear, and she pumped her arms for a few more strides, trying to get close enough to grab him, wishing she'd had her spear—he'd be _dead_ by now if she'd had that extra reach. She put on a burst of speed, grabbing for him—and one of his arms suddenly jerked out, grabbing a thin tree, and he spun right around it, reversing direction, and her eyes followed him for an instant even as she lost her footing, and then she was falling. She was spun in the air by how she'd been twisting to look at him, and saw his filthy face peering down at her, suddenly not looking lax and stupid anymore as the air rushed passed her, her questing hands and feet finding nothing to grab, and then _pain_ as she landed, back first, a horrible crunching noise, and then, finally, darkness, her last image being that damned dirty face looking down at her with eyes that weren't the least bit stupid.

* * *

Jedric made his way carefully down the incline at a much shallower spot than that he'd sent Two-girl plummeting down. The rock was slippery, even here, and he took each step carefully, even if it was He was lucky, he admitted to himself. Lucky that Tanna had happened by when she had, lucky the Career had thrown her spear instead of closing for a kill, and had chosen to chase him without going back for it. He'd underestimated her speed and overestimated his own, and she'd gotten closer than he'd planned as he stumbled and slipped and ran as hard as he could. He'd felt her hand on his shirt once, and had recognized the certainty of his death. But he'd managed to pull away for those final few necessary steps. Maybe that near-grab had even been what had made her pay more attention to him than to the ground in front of her, maybe without that she would have realized and stopped in time. But it didn't matter. Not anymore. He wasn't sure the drop had killed her, but it had to have hurt her badly.

Reaching the bottom, he turned and started towards where she would have landed. He'd made sure it as rocks and upturned branches rather than mud, that had been one of his preparations, and she'd fallen face up, unable to see and try to ease her landing. He saw her lying still on the ground, and crept forward, still wary. She was breathing, he could see the quick, shallow rise and fall of her chest, see little red bubbles form and grow and pop on her lips. That had to be a good sign, he decided, creeping closer. Or a bad one, depending. But good for him.

He inched forward, freezing when one of her hands moved a little, but it fell still, and her eyes were still closed, and she was still breathing fast and shallow and bloody. He saw the branch sticking up through her chest, then, not quite breaking through her shirt, and realized he wouldn't get as much use of her raincoat as he would have otherwise. Then he swallowed back bile as he thought about that reaction. But he couldn't afford to think that way, couldn't afford to be sick. He had to take her down and then go see who else was left and what he could do about them. There were only five left, if he'd counted the shockwaves right, if he hadn't mistaken thunder for cannon fire at some point. Four once he finished here. And those other three opponents would probably be Careers like Merith. Better fighters than him, by far. But he had a chance. If he finished her off, took her things, filled his stomach—he had a chance.

She didn't respond when he touched her, made no move when he cradled her head in his arms and _twisted_ just the way he'd watched the others practice in training, feeling the crack he couldn't hear. But her chest stopped moving, and the last bubbles on her lips popped without getting replaced. He took a long breath and then went to work seeing what of hers he could take.

* * *

Zander pushed through the storm with a careful blend of jaunty unconcern and caution. He was cold and miserable, but he was a District Two volunteer—well, okay, elected official. He'd spent far longer than this cold and miserable in training, and if he couldn't smile through it by now, his trainers would have serious words for him. Of course, they likely would anyway. He still couldn't quite figure out how he was here in the second day of the Games with _sixteen_ tributes already dead—and him with one pair of easy kills at the bloodbath and one minor skirmish after and _nothing else_. Even if he _won_ at this point he was going to be a laughingstock. His frustration and irritation ground at him, but he winked at a camera he caught nestled under a branch hidden from the rain, and shook wet hair back from his face. The audience didn't want to see him frustrated and pissed off at himself for having spent the whole game wasting time—they wanted cocky and fun. Besides, the Game wasn't over yet, he reminded himself, slowing and moving with more care as he saw the break ahead that meant the clearing. A couple of these last kills and nobody would care that he'd missed the action in the middle.

He crept forward. Twenty deaths so far and _eight_ of them had been this morning, which left him in the position of having no clear idea of who the other remaining three were. Common sense suggested some combination of Merrith, the girl from One, the ugly beast of a girl from Four, and probably the jackass from Six, but he couldn't be sure. That would be the worst case, but also the most likely. They'd have to be taken down carefully. Each one, even the Six, were at least somewhat capable fighters, though as the other Two, Merith was obviously the greatest danger. Though the girl from One scored an eleven, he reminded himself. It might've just been to screw with them—but she was definitely a danger.

The clearing seemed perfectly still. The halfwit giant who'd been screaming at the edge the last time he'd been here was gone, no shock there. Nobody else seemed to be around either, though. If there were other Careers, he'd expect them to be near, but they might be playing it safe, waiting it out. He scanned the woods on the opposite side of the clearing, the little ways into them he could see through the lashing rain. It stopped for the clearing itself, but visibility after that was still shitty at best. Nothing.

For a long moment he crouched, watching, listening, though that was even less useful than looking with the roar of the wind and the pounding rain. He tightened and relaxed muscles, judging his condition. His shoulder ached and the slice across his ribs burned a bit, but he seemed to have full strength and range of motion. Either could become debilitating if given time, but it didn't look like this particular Game was going to have anything to do with stamina—it was going to be the shortest to date if things played out the way they seemed to be. So he was good. Ready. Hurting just enough to keep him focused, he decided, and ready for a fight. Oh yeah, he thought with a grin. He was _definitely_ ready for a fight. He slipped into the clearing, teeth flashing for the cameras. "Anyone wanna play?" he called out, voice mocking. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

The rain kept falling outside the clearing, the wind howling through the trees, but here the air was perfectly still, waiting. Ready.

He wandered over to the Cornucopia and looks from far enough away not to get ambushed if anyone was hiding inside. Nobody was. He turned in a slow circle, keeping his back to the Cornucopia, squinting into the storm that raged on every side. Then he turned back, just a little, eyes narrowing further as he thought he saw a flutter of motion that wasn't wind-blown tree. There! In the underbrush, which was mostly still, something moved the wrong way. He took a couple careful steps closer, then grinned as he made out the huge eyes in the pale face staring at him. "I _see_ you," he called.

The girl, the volunteer from Twelve, he thought, squirmed back, away, out of the underbrush, and fled. Grinning, he drew his sword and ran after, skirting the thickest brush, knowing he could make up the time with his greater speed. He threw himself into the run, stumbling only slightly as he hit the storm again and was whipped by wind and rain, then speeding up, careless of the footing, careless of everything but catching the girl in front of him. Another ten strides and he'd have her. Five!

Something heavy hit his back, and he fell hard into the mud, automatically struggling against the weight pressing him into the mud, the hands that pushed his face down into the water. He rolled automatically, before he'd fully realized what was happening, getting a breath clear of water and freeing his sword arm, raising his face enough that he could see the girl from Twelve standing a few paces away, moving cautiously nearer, as someone else fought to hold him down. He threw back an elbow, a solid blow to the ribs, and was able to turn enough to see the girl from Six. The bitches had teamed up, he realized, furious. The younger one had been _bait_. And now she was getting closer with a six inch knife, tentatively looking for an opening.

Roaring, he threw back his elbow again, hearing another grunt of pain, and then flipped his sword around so it ran back past his shoulder. This was going to hurt—but if he won, he'd be healed. He took a breath and threw himself sideways, hand and pommel landing first, upper arm crossing over the blade, which he felt cut deep, but then the blade was up at an angle and the girl who'd been holding him was coming straight for it—it sank into her stomach and she screamed and kept on screaming as he tore the sword free with his off-hand and turned to the other girl, who was still advancing, terrified but determined.

He wasn't as good with his left hand, but the day he couldn't take a tribute from Twelve with his off-hand—especially a tribute from Twelve who brought a knife to a swordfight—was the day he'd give up fighting and focus on math or something. He grinned at her, spat a little mud, and lashed out, slow and easy, playing with her. She jerked back, and his blade darted out again, tapping her knife with enough strength that she almost dropped it before recovering.

He danced back a step, letting her recover. He couldn't stretch out the fight too long, not with his arm still bleeding heavily, especially with one more—probably a stronger one—still out there to find and kill, but after so long with no fighting, he had to hold the audience's attention for a little while at least. He swayed forward, took another little step back—and screamed in shock and pain, collapsing to the side as something stabbed into the back of his knee. He looked down to see the other girl, the _dying_ girl, grinning at him, fierce and determined, the handle of her knife barely visible in the crease of his knee, the blade buried deep in the joint.

"Gotcha," she gasped.

He stared at her in incomprehension, then lashed out instinctively, hearing the other girl yelp as his blade caught the younger one across the belly, not deep enough to do real damage, but easily enough to keep that damned dagger away.

"Fuck you," he snarled. "Fuck the fucking both of you." With his good leg, he kicked, catching the dying one in the chin and sending her sprawling back so he could focus on the one with the knife. "You're still not gonna win," he snarled. "Gonna kill you just like your friend."

She stared back, white faced, still terrified, still determined, but now with something else in her eyes too. Anger. Fury, even. His trainers had mixed feeling on anger. Sometimes it gave you a boost, let you do things you shouldn't be able to, but it mostly made you stupid. You had to control it, they always said, control it or it would control you. He figured this one probably didn't have that much practice with that, she'd let the anger make her stupid. Him, now, he was angrier than he'd ever been in his life. However soon he killed these two, they'd hurt him badly enough that he'd be useless against whoever the last one was—at least if it was Merith of that girl from One or someone else with even a modicum of skill. He could kill them both, and they'd still probably have kept him from winning, the bitches. But he sure as hell wasn't going to get killed by a Twelve.

He gathered himself, good leg tensing, preparing—and threw himself forward, lunging. Somehow, the girl spun aside, and he landed hard. A jolt of agony ran through him as something stabbed him hard in the shoulder he'd sacrificed to taking down the first girl, and his vision went white for a second as he automatically turned, raising his sword before he could even see, and lunging, feeling the tip hit something and sink in, hearing her gasp of pain even as he put weight on his injured knee and collapsed over it again. And then she stabbed him again.

* * *

Posy couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but drive her knife into the back again and again and again until finally, finally, he went still and the cannon blared and she sank shuddering to the ground.

"'sy..."

She blinked and turned her head, tears filling her eyes as they focused on Myra, worry visible through the rictus of pain on her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

Impossibly, Myra smiled a little. "S'okay," she said. "L'ready won."

Posy nodded. "You killed Dug."

"Damn ... straight," she gasped. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck."

"What can I do?" Posy whispered.

Myra started to say something, shook her head, and held out one hand. "Gut," she whispered. "L'ready dead, cannon just ... not firin'."

"No, no, there has to be something—"

"Not 'less you wanna speed it 'long," Myra whispered, closing her eyes and panting out the words.

Posy shrank back. "I—"

"Yeah. Figured."

There was no blame in the voice, but Posy felt a shock of shame nonetheless. She crept closer, lifting Myra's head into her lap.

"Sh'd patch y'rsel' up," Myra whispered. "One t'go."

"Time enough," Posy breathed, smoothing back the older girl's hair and moving her left hand down to clasp Myra's where it clenched in the mud. She knew she'd been hurt, but she couldn't even feel it, not yet. She just felt numb. Numb and angry and ashamed and helpless. No, not helpless. That was an evasion. If she was helpless, she wouldn't be able to do anything, wouldn't have to. She wasn't helpless.

"T'k down a Career," Myra gasped. "You an' me."

"We did," she murmured back. "You mostly. And you got Dug, just like you wanted. You already won." She ran the knuckles of her right hand over Myra's cheek, leaving a streak of dirt and blood that was quickly washed away by the pounding rain. Then she turned her hand, preparing. "Thank you," she whispered. "Goodbye." She drove the knife into the side of Myra's neck, just like they'd shown her in practice. Myra's eyes flickered, her mouth opened a little, then closed as hot blood drenched Posy, then she went still.

Posy held the older girl and sobbed as the cannon sounded, wishing there was something she could do, something she could say. She almost hated Myra in that minute, for talking to her, befriending her. Making this hurt so much. Finally, she controlled her choking sobs and opened her eyes. The blood had been washed away from the plastic of her coat, stripped from her hands by the storm, only a redness to the mud pooling around her knees showed any sign of it. She looked down at Myra, the mask of pain gone, face relaxed, smiling just a little.

"One to go," Posy whispered, and stood up, stumbling as she was brought to sudden agonizing awareness of the pain in her thigh where that last lunge had caught her, and the burning line across her stomach where the earlier slice had nearly sent her after Myra. She sighed and looked for some cover she could take advantage of to at least bind the two wounds. She didn't want to go back into the clearing if she could avoid it. Not with only one more left and with that one probably looking for her.

* * *

Jedric felt kind of fantastic as he slipped through the trees. His stomach was full, he'd eaten two protein bars, some dried fruit, and jerky, and drunk some sort of shake and a fair amount of water. He was warm, dressed in clothes he'd taken from the girl he'd killed and covered by her raincoat, which he'd even been able to patch with a roll of heavy tape he found in her pack. He'd found some cover under an overhang and taken a nap, figuring everyone else would be heading to the Cornucopia and he had a little time and would do better for some rest. He'd woken to the feel of the cannon blast shaking him, and had felt surprisingly rested. Really, he felt better than he'd ever imagined he could after having survived most of one of the Hunger Games. But it wouldn't do to get cocky, he reminded himself. There was one person left, and whether it was a Career or Isra, the fact that they were alive meant they were dangerous.

The buffeting wind drove rain into his hood, where it dribbled down his neck into his shirt, but after the cold and wet of the last day-and-a-half, that minor discomfort was less than nothing. He was pretty sure he'd felt better before, but it was honestly kind of hard to remember when. He slowed as he neared the Cornucopia's clearing, creeping through storm, moving from tree to tree and bush to bush with his eyes flitting about in search of any movement that _mattered_ against the constant motion of the storm. He timed his biggest moves with especially strong gusts of wind to further disguise his own motion, as he crept closer. When he could just make out the stillness of the clearing in front of him, Jedric began to work his way around it, pausing frequently to look towards it and away from it, searching the shadows of the bushes and the whipping branches overhead. He was too close to somehow, miraculously, surviving this insanity to lose it to carelessness now.

Carefully, cautiously, he made his way around, straining for any warning of an attack. And then he froze, pressing down into the ground, narrowing his eyes and dropping his face so he could barely see the smudge of white that had caught his eye. A hand. White even beneath the heavy smudges of dirt, tensing and relaxing around the hilt of a black-bladed knife. The black dripped, and he realized it was blood, too much light stolen by the storm to make out the red. He followed the hand back until he could make out the face above it, deep in a hood and deeper still in a clump of bushes. Face pale and shocky with lurid splashes that probably also weren't black streaked through by rain to make a natural camouflage in this light. But he could see her now. One of the young ones. He'd rather been hoping for someone he wouldn't regret killing. And to be honest, she didn't look like she was in very good shape, so possibly he could just wait her out. But tributes had tried merely waiting before, and it mostly didn't end well. This, after all, was entertainment. And shivering in the mud wasn't much more fun to watch than to do, he figured. So the makers of these special little hells had developed ways to prod the action on if the players didn't cooperate, and he'd just as soon not be prodded.

He shimmied back a little and then worked around, away from the clearing and behind her, barely keeping her in sight. Then he drew his own knife, carefully, always aware that he had no real understanding of how loud a noise could be, and putting all the more effort into muffling his movements for that reason.

She didn't even look around as he slipped forward, and the blade sliding into the base of her skull was almost anti-climactic. He hoped she didn't feel it as the blood sprayed him and the rain stopped as though a switch had been thrown (which, no doubt, it had), and the clouds separated to let the sun through as the report of final the cannon vibrated through him.

Jedric began to shiver as the heat of the sun worked its way through his raincoat and sweater.


	10. Epilogue: Exit Interview

**Epilogue  
Exit Interview**

Fabius took a sip of water as Jedric stepped onto the stage and over to his interview seat, his face showing none of the slackness that had characterized it the last time they'd faced each other. Instead, his eyes were sharp and his jaw firm, his face locked into a calm mask, which only shifted slightly when his chair squeaked as he sat. They'd done surgery to fix his hearing, but he clearly wasn't used to it yet, and Fabius had been warned to ask his questions facing him so that his lips could be read. One day, perhaps he'd be able to hear and speak normally, but for now he was still using the keyboard as well. He waited for the boy to settle and then started in, keeping his tone teasing ad jovial. "And welcome back, Jedric. Now, I have to admit, you were not the top pick for winner this year. I take it you were playing with us a bit between the reaping and the games?"

The young victor didn't even bother to glance down at the keyboard, just let his fingers flow over it. "Well, it's all a game, after all," the deep voice pointed out in a normal speaking speed. "We're all here to have fun, right?" He almost even thought there was just a hint of irony in the tone, but that might have been his imagination.

"So, Jedric, there was an interesting group of Tributes this year. Who do you think the smartest was?"

"Rosin," he typed instantly.

Fabius frowned, though he wasn't entirely sorry—he should be able to get a good segue into one of the topics he'd been told to bring up. "Rosin?

"He knew he couldn't win, and he took a fast death over slow. That seems pretty damn smart to me."

"Ah, I see what you mean," Fabius agreed, nodding. He let an expression of sorrow take over his face. "It's a shame his family won't get to thank you for your kind words."

The boy's face flickered a bit, but stayed mostly calm. "No?"

"Ah, of course, you wouldn't have heard of District Seven's tragic fire! Mere hours after Rosin's fall, his family home was consumed in a blaze. Faulty wiring, I hear. Every attempt was made, but none of his family were rescued." He studied Jedric's face as he took in the words, the slight tightening of the lips and narrowing of the eyes. Oh, he understood. Hopefully everyone else would, as well, and the Capitol would not have to make its point more obviously. Suicide wasn't what the Games were about.

"What a pity," Jedric's fingers spelt out, and the voice intoned it blandly.

"Yes, indeed. Truly tragic," Fabius mourned. "What of your other opponents? Did any of them discover your secret before you revealed it to them?"

"Nessa knew. And the girl from Eleven," he answered promptly. In training, she always made sure to turn so I could see how she was doing things, since I couldn't take an obvious interest."

"Tanna Polan? Fascinating! Did you ever discuss it with her?"

"No," he answered simply.

"How confident were you going in? Did you think you were going to win?"

Jedric rolled his eyes. "No, of course not. It was all dependent on everyone underestimating me and me judging everything just right. I almost lost: If Eleven—Tanna, you said her name as—hadn't distracted the Career chasing me, if she'd had her spear on her, or I'd been even a little slower, I'd've been dead and she'd probably be sitting here in front of you." He smirked just a little. "Which I'm sure you all would have preferred."

Well. Yes. They always preferred the Careers win, because it reinforced the idea that those who submitted fully and willingly to the will of the Capitol would persevere. And pretty, charming Victors were always more desirable than, well, plain and sneaky were about the kindest ways of putting it, but such things just weren't _discussed_. "It's a game of chance," Fabius said piously, "and, clearly, the odds were in your favor."

"Bullshit," the boy's fingers snapped out.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"The odds, for what good they are, were in favor of the Careers, just as they always are. Even they don't have _good_ odds. The odds weren't in my favor, I beat the odds. With planning and skill and a massive helping of luck."

"Well, that's a unique way of looking at it," Fabius said with forced geniality. "What are you planning to do with yourself now that you're a Victor? You'll be moving into the Victors Village with your family, of course."

"No," he answered. "Well. I'll be moving in. I have no intention of taking my father."

"You don't get along?"

"No."

"I see, then how do you plan to fill your days, Jedric?"

A very small, ironic smile touched the young man's lips. "Oh," he typed and the voice intoned. "I'm sure I'll think of something."

"Well, we'll look forward to seeing what that something is! Let's hear it, everybody, for our twenty-fifth victor: Jedric Nikai of District Ten!"

The cheers weren't the loudest he'd ever heard, but it was still more than for anything not related to the Games. Jedric wasn't a popular Victor, but they still gave him credit for a Game well played. The boy gave his audience a thin, unconvincing smile and left the stage.

The curtain fell and Fabius promptly turned his mind to next year. His outfits this year had been phenomenal, and he'd have to come up with something truly grand to top himself next year. Perhaps something with metallic shades, he thought. And perhaps jewels to stud his teeth: that trend was growing, and it wouldn't do to be left behind. Putting this year's rather disappointing Game firmly from his mind, he moved his focus to what really mattered and called for his team of stylists to meet him at once. There was so much to do before next year!


End file.
